How did the tube lines get their colours?

The original Harry Beck map, from 1933. The artistry astounds. Image: Clarksbury Tube Map Archive

What if the Central line were blue? Or the Piccadilly was a lurid yellow?

Just for fun, let’s make the Metropolitan line red, too. Spice things up a bit.

If you’re not screaming in anguish by this point, I suggest you shut your laptop and continue with your day.

But if you are, it’s a vital question. Each tube line has its own colour; clear, defined, immutable.

So how did the tube lines get their colours?

The Beck Revolution

Harry Beck is the undisputed master of the tube map. In 1933 he changed the transport world – and, arguably, the design world, too – with his geometrically laid out map of the London Underground network.

Whereas all previous maps had been geographical representations of London, with the lines drawn between the stations actual locations, Beck understood that the above-surface geography cluttered the picture, providing the transport with unnecessary information that needlessly complicated a journey.

So he just eradicated it. Instead, he designed a clean, clear, crisp map. Each line charted a course of straight lines wherever possible, with interchanges between lines shown as hollow geometric diamonds, and the snaking of the Thames providing the only meaningful geographical marker.

The principles that guided his first map still govern the Underground network today, and have been adopted (often very closely) by almost every urban transport network in the world.

Image: TfL.

Much of his map is familiar to us, particularly in terms of colours and the basis of the network, which was reasonably well established by the 1930s.

The Metropolitan line floats off into the top left hand corner of the map in a deep purple, as it does today. The District line dominates the western stretch of the River Thames in its snaking green, and pushes out east from Whitechapel into the ether.

The Northern line straddles central London, with its two branches through Bank and Charing Cross in the black that we still use today. The Piccadilly runs in a deep blue U-shape from South Harrow to Cockfosters.

But other aspects are less familiar.

The Central line is a Trump-esque orange, and the Bakerloo, running all the way to Watford Junction, is in Central line red.

Weird, huh?

But the offensively wrong colours didn’t last long. By 1938, the Central line was in today’s red, and the Bakerloo line – the brown line – had taken on its right and proper hue.

Before introducing the lines that have been built or introduced since, however, it’s worth peering a little further back.

The earliest tube maps

One of the first tube maps you can find online these days is from 1908. And for today’s tube users, it is entirely horrifying.

The District line is still green, sure, and the Northern line (then only from South London to Euston via Bank) is black. Other than that, pretty much everything is wrong.

A 1908 geographical tube map. Image: Clarksbury Tube Map Archive.

The Charing Cross branch of today’s Northern line, from Charing Cross to Highgate and Golders Green, is a deep greyish blue, and today’s Piccadilly (from Hammersmith to Finsbury Park) is a putrid yellow.

The Metropolitan Railway is in red, and – most horrifyingly of all – the Central line is in Victoria line blue.

Weirdly, though, the Bakerloo (then running only from Edgware Road to Elephant and Castle) is brown. Despite the fact it would later stop being brown, for a bit.

Fixing the palette

The District line is the most colour-stable of them all. In every map I’ve seen – and that’s an awful lot of maps – it’s coloured green.

While there’s no set established historical reason for this, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that it’s one of the primary colours (of light, if not of paint), and therefore a good choice. Its also nicely emblematic of the leafy pastures of the pleasant west London suburbs from which it brought commuters to the centre of the gritty city.

The District line also has a lot of green on it. Though now only Turnham Green and Parsons Green survive, Fulham Broadway used to be called Walham Green. And with Chiswick Park, Wimbledon Park, Southfields, and Kew Gardens all along the line, it’s all pretty... green-sounding.

Scientific stuff.

The Metropolitan line has stayed resolutely purple since the first Beck map in 1933. It’s a similar colour in this rather overly artistic map from 1921.

A very art-deco looking tube, in 1921. Image: Clarksbury Tube Map Archive.

Again, there’s no historical decree as to why purple was the anointed hue, but many of the Metropolitan Railway’s locomotives – in its steam days – were painted purple. So it’s likely that the private railway company, as it was in those days, used purple as a company livery of sorts. This then got transferred over to the line when it became part of the wider London Underground network.

Plus, it contrasts pretty nicely with the green of the District line, which helps tell the two apart – especially as, in the early days of the underground, they spent a lot of time jostling against one another, both figuratively and literally.

The City and South London Railway was the first deep-level tube line to open, and was also the first electric railway in England, opened by the Prince of Wales (Edward VII) in 1890. The fact it was the deepest, darkest line seems as good an explanation as any for why today’s Northern line is black.


The Piccadilly line is also one of the oldest, which is why it was also gifted with a primary colour – blue. The 1920s seems to be when the Piccadilly and Central made the switch, with Piccadilly taking over a mid-blue that would later shift to our current dark blue, and Central occupying the hearty red we have today. Beck’s first map is a bit of a blip for the Central line.

The Circle line is an early entry to the map, and given its proximity to the Metropolitan and District lines was an obvious choice for yellow – it contrasts well with both, helping the visibility of the lines on the map, and making it much more intuitive for passengers.

As mentioned earlier, the Bakerloo flirted with various colours before settling on the brown. Perhaps that just made alliterative sense.

More interesting are the newer lines. Despite the fact that Queen Victoria’s favourite colour was almost certainly purple, the 60s-built line is a light blue. This, if you look at the other colours already in use, seems a logical distinction – but it did mean that the Piccadilly line’s darker hue had to be formalised as a darker blue, rather than the mid blue used in some of Beck’s maps.

The Jubilee line, carved out of a branch of the Bakerloo with an extension to Charing Cross in the 1970s, has the most definitive story behind its colour.

Originally intended to be called the Fleet line – as it was supposed to have connected north-west with south-east London over the subterranean River Fleet – the planned colour was a steely grey to make a clever pun on fleet, the river, and fleet, as in ships.

A 1985 map, showing the Jubilee line to Charing Cross. Image: Clarksbury Tube Map Archive

But when the Queen’s Silver Jubilee came around, and the Conservatives won the Greater London Council election of 1977, the line was renamed the Jubilee Line. The colour was accordingly adjusted – with just a few shades of lightening, it transformed from a steely, Labour, hardworking sort of grey to a bougie, Conservative, metro-liberal-elite sort of silver. Or something.

The last formal entry to the tube map, the Hammersmith & City line, came along in 1990 and rather aptly demonstrates the problem of having too many lines: it’s salmon pink.

But having said that, it works. It contrasts enough with the lines that it straddles from Barking to Hammersmith, and doesn’t really come into enough contact with the lines it might clash with – namely, the Central – for that to be a problem.

Essentially, the tube map is a hodge-podge of colours that accidentally fell into place over decades, many of them for no good reason, and are now so resolutely stuck that changing one would probably incite a revolution. 

So, there we go.

Jack May is a regular contributor to CityMetric and tweets as @JackO_May.

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This app connects strangers in two cities across the world. But can it tackle urban loneliness?

New Delhi, in India, where many of Duet-App's users come from. Image: Ville Miettinen

“You can be lonely anywhere, but there is a particular flavour to the loneliness that comes from living in a city, surrounded by millions of people”. Olivia Laing, The Lonely City

Our relationship to where we live and the spaces we inhabit define who we are and how we feel. But how often do we articulate the emotional impact of this relationship, whether this be loneliness, frustration or even civic pride?

“When I moved to a new city, started living alone, wanted to drink less, stay indoors more, and when I realised that I cannot make any more best friends.”

A new social network, a simple app that connects two individuals from the UK and India, aims to counter some of these issues.  Over the course of a year connected pairs receive one question a day through the app and their responses are exchanged with each other. A simple interaction that gradually builds a series of one-on-one relationships and invites users to imagine, over time, the other person living their life.

Distant geographies are an implicit part of the experience, therefore many of the questions nudge users to explore correlations between their physical and emotional landscapes. The data shows us that many of the Duet-App users are located in populous urban cities like Delhi, Bangalore, Manchester, Leeds and London, places that can just as often discourage feelings of belonging and place-making as much as they foster them.

“I had thought I'd never be able to live here again. but here I am living again at home after almost a decade living elsewhere. Living in Mumbai is a contact sport, and I can't do without it's chaos and infectious energy.”

Mumbai, India. Image: Deepak Gupta

In general cities are getting bigger and spreading wider at the same time as our communications are increasingly being conducted online and via digital gateways.

There is a sense that much of our online personas project an idealised version of ourselves; we increasingly document and express our daily lives through a filter and we are not always comfortable with a spontaneous expression of ourselves. Duet-App seeks to foster alternative digital relationships that through their anonymity allow us to be more honest and free.

“I feel a lot of people assume that I always have a lot going on for me and everything's always happy and amazing. I wish they could appreciate... how much of my own anxiety I swim in every single day. I appear and behave “normal” on the outside, calm and composed but there are always storms going on in my head.”

In exploring the responses to the questions so far, those that often garner the most replies relate directly to how we feel about our personal position in the world around us. Often these questions act as provocations not only to share responses but to reflect and articulate our thoughts around how we feel about what we are doing in the here and now.

Manchester, another popular city for Duet-App users. Image: Julius 

“Sometimes I feel sad about it [getting old] because I saw how easy it would be to feel lonely, and the fact that the world is set up for able-bodied young people is a bit of a travesty.”

Although many social media platforms allow for distant engagement and access into the lives of others we are in the main still curating and choosing our friendship circles. Through Duet-App this is randomised (and anonymised) with the intention of bypassing the traditional mechanics of how we broker online relationships. While directly exploring the digital space as a place for intimacy.


“Where do you go for peace?

“Well the internet, really. I do some mindless browsing, peek into the fandoms, listen to a few songs. Calms me down.”

Snapshots into the lives of someone existing and playing out their lives remotely can highlight shared concerns that break down preconceptions of how life is lived by others. Prompted by the reflections of a stranger exposed to our lives, digital relationships can encourage us to address the physical space we inhabit and the effects that the cities we live out our lives in have on our own well being. 

Catherine Baxendale is director of Invisible Flock.

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