“It can be instructive to look at how past Londoners have imagined the city’s future”: on unbuilt London

The Barbican Estate: not the future of London, but quite popular nonetheless. Image: Riodamascus/Wikimedia Commons.

The years prior to 2012 saw a stream of criticism surrounding the plans to host the London Olympics. The costs of pulling everything together; the impact on the Lea Valley; the displacement of small local businesses; the prospect of security missiles on east London roofs; the security miscalculations (troops were eventually brought in alongside G4S); the unsightliness of Anish Kapoor’s Orbit; the fast lanes to the site for grandees... All this, and more, led to predictions that Londoners would leave during the games and reduce the city to a ghost town.

But once the gold medals started rolling in, the concerns dissipated. Today, we are more likely to remember the games as an expression of the UK as a multicultural, modern, open, and sportingly successful country.

To plan for future triumphs often requires us to be blinkered. Faith in an idea for the future can demand tunnel vision. The German-born economist, Albert O. Hirschman, who died in 2012, liked to tell the story of the 19th-century construction of the railway line connecting Boston and the Hudson River. Laying the line required tunneling through a mountain, something planners assumed would be relatively easy.

But the project was much more complicated and difficult than anyone had imagined, and cost ten times more than expected. If the designers and planners and construction companies had known how hard it would be, no one would have committed to it; yet in the end, the result immeasurably improved the economy of the region.

Hirschman developed the principle of the Hiding Hand, a play on Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand, which argued that humans have a natural propensity to underestimate the difficulty of preparing for the future. This leads, on the one hand, to ingenious problem-solving of a kind we wouldn’t willingly embark on if we knew what was coming, and on the other to unintended consequences and perverse outcomes.

As London tries to think itself into the world of the mid-21st century, to assess what will be required in 10, 25 or 50 years’ time, it can be instructive to look at how past Londoners have imagined the city’s future. In a previous issue of London Essays, the Centre for London journal from which this article is an extract, Geoff Mulgan suggested that the city is full of membranes into the past. Arguably, the grand projects of London’s past offer a membrane of sorts into the future, even if the future for which they were built never truly materialised. They act as monuments to our ideas of how we thought we could shape things.

The modernism of the Royal Festival Hall, for example, tells of a brief exciting moment amid post-war austerity when the Festival of Britain celebrated the country’s modernity and energy – although its attendant monument, the Skylon, was famously dismantled and sold for scrap.


Further down river, Canary Wharf suggests a less communitarian, more Thatcherite free market vision of the future. The Barbican offers up a utopian democratic vision, although its brutalism can also sometimes be uncomfortable: it turned out that Londoners were less keen to learn a new way of using urban space than its architects, Chamberlin, Powell and Bon, anticipated. The elevated thoroughfares and areas originally intended for shops remain deserted. But the Barbican continues to thrive, as a visit any weekend will attest. And an apartment, if one ever becomes available, is well out of the price range of most Londoners.

At least as instructive are the plans that never materialised. In 1855, Joseph Paxton proposed the Great Victorian Way, a ten-mile glass loop circling a portion of central and west London: a spectacular arcade of glass-covered streets, roadways, shops, railway stations, and three river crossings. New technology would enable the use of glass strong and cheap enough for the project, which received the backing of parliament.

In the event, the cholera epidemic of 1858’s Great Stink meant funds had to be diverted and the plan shelved; ultimately, London’s sewer system was created instead. The unbuilt loop is said to have provided the basis for the route of the Central line.

In 1909, the writer Ford Madox Ford published an essay titled The Future in London, offering a provocative vision of a planned city circumscribed by a 60-mile sweep of a compass point set in Threadneedle Street. As Iain Sinclair has noted, this anticipated the vision of Britain’s most famed town planner, Patrick Abercrombie (the moving spirit behind the M25 and the green belt) in reading “London as a series of orbital hoops, ring roads and parkland”.

Bizarrely, in the 1930s, Charles Glover proposed turning King’s Cross into an airport with eight runways arranged in an octagon on stilts. Later, he suggested planting a heliport on the roofs of Covent Garden. These plans didn’t take off, so to speak, though in some respects London City Airport is a descendant.

There were other attempts to elevate the city: during the postwar reconstruction of the 1950s and 1960s, the City of London Corporation proposed a network of elevated walkways between the buildings of the Square Mile. These “pedways” would take pedestrians off the street and give them their own walkways on higher ground. Some were built, albeit in a scattershot manner: the plan only really found expression in the Barbican (with limited success), and elsewhere, the pedways ran into dead ends, or failed to join up with each other. The Corporation eventually abandoned the policy. Fragments stand today as small glimpses into a planned post-war future that didn’t quite come to pass.

In 1954, Geoffrey Jellico, Ove Arup and Edward Mills devised a scheme to demolish Soho bit by bit and replace it with several large towers sitting on top of a platform, below which gardens and canals would have traced the shape of former streets.

In the late 1960s, a scheme was hatched to build the London Ringways – miles of elevated motorways encircling and crossing the city. Thousands of people would have had to be moved and entire districts of the capital disrupted for this to come to pass. Public resistance, the first stirrings of the road protest movement and high costs brought the scheme back down to earth.

The ringways, as planned in the 1960s. Click to expand. Image: Wikipedia Commons.

In 1982, there was an idea to pedestrianise Oxford Street by raising the cars onto a flyover running the length of the street, about two stories above the existing road. Escalators would allow pedestrians to access buses above. The whole thing would have been encased in glass (the Great Victorian Way lives on), effectively creating a shopping mall out of Oxford Street. After initial interest in the plan by architect Brian Avery (who would later design the BFI Imax and the London Transport Museum), the project ran aground on questions of cost, logistics and fears over pollution.

Muddling through

Giant malls to rival Oxford Street would follow later. Attempts to “fix” Oxford Street would continue, as would the pollution. These wacky schemes do little to moderate the cynicism that is often expressed when our own sense of the future is articulated. But too much scepticism can be unhelpful, inducing helplessness: we do need to plan in some way for the future. And the future can be bright, and much-loved: the Barbican and the Southbank Centre now feel as indelible to London as Hyde Park and Regent Street.

In his 1959 essay, ‘The Science of “Muddling Through”’, the American political scientist Charles Lindblom made the case against too much theory when it comes to future planning, and for “building out from the current situation, step-by-step and by small degrees”.

The problem with grand visions of the future, Lindblom argued, is that “on many critical values or objectives, citizens disagree, congressmen disagree, and public administrators disagree”. Schemes that start as if the present were a blank slate, proposing their own fundamental values, are almost invariably doomed to failure: “A wise policy-maker consequently expects that his policies will achieve only part of what he hopes and at the same time will produce unanticipated consequences he would have preferred to avoid. If he proceeds through a succession of incremental changes, he avoids serious lasting mistakes in several ways.”

Adapting to fast-moving times with gradual incremental changes can feel like playing catch-up. But it has often been London’s way. When John Nash designed Regent Street in the early 19th century, he imagined a long straight boulevard like those of French cities, running from Portland Place to Carlton House Terrace. Private ownership of land put paid to this design, as did St James’s Square. Instead, his street had to curve to avoid some places along the route, although various streets and buildings were still demolished, whether people liked it or not.

The 1813 plans for Regent Street.

The street also had to be moved a little further west. To get down to Pall Mall, Regent Street takes an awkward hard right at Piccadilly. Towards the end of the street’s development, a separate plan to construct Piccadilly Circus was added into the mix. And the buildings were rather soon redeveloped, some of them as little as 70 years later: little of the original remains beyond the shape of things.

A dose of scepticism is a useful asset when it comes to envisaging the city of the future, as is an acceptance that divergent interests and demands will force upon us awkward turns here and there. But ambition and vision are important too. Big ideas have shaped the city and will continue to do so. From Regent Street to the Olympic Park, Londoners’ visions of the future are all around us, muddling through and showing off their optimistic futurism.

This is an extract from London Essays, a journal published by Centre for London and supported by Capital and Counties Properties PLC. The full collection of essays are available here.

 
 
 
 

12 things we learned by reading every single National Rail timetable

Some departure boards, yesterday. Image: flickr.com/photos/joshtechfission/ CC-BY-SA

A couple of weeks ago, someone on Twitter asked CityMetric’s editor about the longest possible UK train journey where the stations are all in progressive alphabetical order. Various people made suggestions, but I was intrigued as to what that definitive answer was. Helpfully, National Rail provides a 3,717 page document containing every single timetable in the country, so I got reading!

(Well, actually I let my computer read the raw data in a file provided by ATOC, the Association of Train Operating Companies. Apparently this ‘requires a good level of computer skills’, so I guess I can put that on my CV now.)

Here’s what I learned:

1) The record for stops in progressive alphabetical order within a single journey is: 10

The winner is the weekday 7.42am Arriva Trains Wales service from Bridgend to Aberdare, which stops at the following stations in sequence:

  • Barry, Barry Docks, Cadoxton, Cardiff Central, Cardiff Queen Street, Cathays, Llandaf, Radyr, Taffs Well, Trefforest

The second longest sequence possible – 8 – overlaps with this. It’s the 22:46pm from Cardiff Central to Treherbert, although at present it’s only scheduled to run from 9-12 April, so you’d better book now to avoid the rush. 

  • Cardiff Central, Cardiff Queen Street, Cathays, Llandaf, Radyr, Taffs Well, Trefforest, Trehafod

Not quite sure what you’ll actually be able to do when you get to Trehafod at half eleven. Maybe the Welsh Mining Experience at Rhondda Heritage Park could arrange a special late night event to celebrate.

Just one of the things that you probably won't be able to see in Trehafod. Image: Wikimedia/FruitMonkey.

There are 15 possible runs of 7 stations. They include:

  • Berwick Upon Tweed, Dunbar, Edinburgh, Haymarket, Inverkeithing, Kirkcaldy, Leuchars
  • Bidston, Birkenhead North, Birkenhead Park, Conway Park, Hamilton Square, James Street, Moorfields
  • Bedford, Flitwick, Harlington, Leagrave, Luton, St Albans City, St Pancras International

There is a chance for a bit of CONTROVERSY with the last one, as you could argue that the final station is actually called London St Pancras. But St Pancras International the ATOC data calls it, so if you disagree you should ring them up and shout very loudly about it, I bet they love it when stuff like that happens.

Alphabetical train journeys not exciting enough for you?

2) The longest sequence of stations with alliterative names: 5

There are two ways to do this:

  • Ladywell, Lewisham, London Bridge, London Waterloo (East), London Charing Cross – a sequence which is the end/beginning of a couple of routes in South East London.
  • Mills Hill, Moston, Manchester Victoria, Manchester Oxford Road, Manchester Piccadilly – from the middle of the Leeds-Manchester Airport route.

There are 20 ways to get a sequence of 4, and 117 for a sequence of 3, but there are no train stations in the UK beginning with Z so shut up you at the back there.

3) The longest sequence of stations with names of increasing length: 7

Two of these:

  • York, Leeds, Batley, Dewsbury, Huddersfield, Manchester Victoria, Manchester Oxford Road
  • Lewes, Glynde, Berwick, Polegate, Eastbourne, Hampden Park, Pevensey & Westham

4) The greatest number of stations you can stop at without changing trains: 50

On a veeeeery slow service that calls at every stop between Crewe and Cardiff Central over the course of 6hr20. Faster, albeit less comprehensive, trains are available.

But if you’re looking for a really long journey, that’s got nothing on:

5) The longest journey you can take on a single National Rail service: 13 hours and 58 minutes.

A sleeper service that leaves Inverness at 7.17pm, and arrives at London Euston at 9.15am the next morning. Curiously, the ATOC data appears to claim that it stops at Wembley European Freight Operations Centre, though sadly the National Rail website makes no mention of this once in a lifetime opportunity.

6) The shortest journey you can take on a National Rail service without getting off en route: 2 minutes.

Starting at Wrexham Central, and taking you all the way to Wrexham General, this service is in place for a few days in the last week of March.

7) The shortest complete journey as the crow flies: 0 miles

Because the origin station is the same as the terminating station, i.e. the journey is on a loop.

8) The longest unbroken journey as the crow flies: 505 miles

Taking you all the way from Aberdeen to Penzance – although opportunities to make it have become rarer. The only direct service in the current timetable departs at 8.20am on Saturday 24 March. It stops at 46 stations and takes 13 hours 20 minutes. Thankfully, a trolley service is available.

9) The shortest station names on the network have just 3 letters

Ash, Ayr, Ely, Lee, Lye, Ore, Par, Rye, Wem, and Wye.

There’s also I.B.M., serving an industrial site formerly owned by the tech firm, but the ATOC data includes those full stops so it's not quite as short. Compute that, Deep Blue, you chess twat.

10) The longest station name has 33 letters excluding spaces

Okay, I cheated on this and Googled it – the ATOC data only has space for 26 characters. But for completeness’ sake: it’s Rhoose Cardiff International Airport, with 33 letters.

No, I’m not counting that other, more infamous Welsh one, because it’s listed in the database as Llanfairpwll, which is what it is actually called.

 

This sign is a lie. Image: Cyberinsekt.

11) The highest platform number on the National Rail network is 22

Well, the highest platform number at which anything is currently scheduled to stop at, at least.

12) if yoU gAze lOng into an abYss the abySs alSo gazEs into yOu

Image: author's own.

“For I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved”, said Thomas.

Ed Jefferson works for the internet and tweets as @edjeff.

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