The lost East Anglian city of Dunwich is a reminder of the destruction climate change can wreak

Greyfriars Monastery, Dunwich. Image: Claude Lynch.

It’s 2019 and, if there was ever any doubt that the climate emergency wasn’t the existential issue of our times, it’s fading fast. Low-lying island chains are playing hide-and-seek with the sea, people in Iceland are writing eulogies to their favourite glaciers, the Great Barrier Reef has pulled a sickie and on top of all that this year looks to be the hottest on record. What a scorcher, they’ll say in the UK.

It’s as if we think countries like ours are somehow predisposed to not being entirely blown to bits by extreme weather; instead, we get the benefits. To us a warmer climate brings up-and-coming Surrey wine and a good excuse for a balmy stay-at-home holiday, Somerset Levels be damned.

But the UK already has proof of the damage the climate can do – a drowned city lost for good, our own Atlantis, the victim of shifting seas and a dangerous fable for any low-lying town that remains.

They called it Dunwich, Anglo-Saxon for the “town on the hill”. Located on the East Anglian coast, it was recorded in the Domesday Book as one of the largest towns in England, over 3,000 inhabitants compared to just 400 for Brighton. At its 13th century peak, its size would have rivalled that of the medieval City of London. It had almost a dozen churches, distinct quarters, bustling market squares, a town hall and even a vast monastery. But the ruined wall of the latter is the only trace that still stands of the medieval town: Dunwich has been submerged and, for the most part, forgotten.

The local museum attempts to depict what the town once was, though half of the street pattern is the result of “informed speculation”, because the original has been completely washed away by five centuries of erosion. Remarkably, a solitary gravestone remains from the graveyard of the last church to fall away into the sea. This, along with most of the remaining ruins, is predicted to collapse before 2100, removing the final titbits of evidence for the existence of a town that once rivalled London.

So what happened? The town was built on a natural bay, and grew as a hub of trade. Originally, the Dunwich River provided a protected harbour for ships coming in around the East Anglian peninsula, just as Lowestoft or Felixstowe do today.

But after a storm in 1286, the harbour began silting up and the sea encroaching. The natural spit that once sheltered the town wore away until Dunwich lay at the water’s edge in all directions: the coast was eroding by more than a metre a year. A second storm in 1328 saw 375 dwellings in three separate parishes lost in a single night. The population sank from 4500 to just over 1500 in less than 100 years – and that was before the Black Death turned things from bad to worse.


By 1587, records show that most of the street pattern remained, creating a ghost town of under 200 people. That’s roughly how many remain today, but in scattered houses further inland: almost all of the original street pattern lies beyond the sand bank. One of the greatest towns of medieval Britain effectively fell into the sea.

The chalk of the Suffolk coast is still prone to erosion, and even now there’s little incentive to protect it. While Dunwich now lies between the latter-day seaside resorts of Southwold and Aldeburgh, it never became a pied-á-terre for London’s second homeowners. Instead it was slowly abandoned and then demolished altogether, not thanks to fate or even that lovely GCSE Geography topic of “longshore drift”, but simply shifting sands.

Facsimiles of Dunwich exist all along the East Anglian coast: towns that were once of great importance, miniaturised by social and geographical trends. There’s half a dozen churches on this stretch of coast encased in the ruins of far larger ones: the skeleton of a church far larger was abandoned and replaced with a smaller one that was easier to maintain, as populations dwindled.

The onslaught of the North Sea provoked its own medieval migratory flow; it was simply no longer sustainable to keep protecting towns like Dunwich with the rudimentary sea defences of the time, so its people steadily took their leave. Today, with our modern sea defences, it’s not quite the same story. But just imagine if the storm that swept away Dunwich’s dreams came again; it’s hardly out of the question.

Salty seas, patchy records and sheer obscurity mean we didn’t build a story around the destruction of Dunwich the way we have with Pompeii or Chernobyl.  But we can use the story of Dunwich as a stand-in, until the day comes when Ely, Boston or god forbid Margate face the wrath of the cold, frigid sea.

Thousands lost their homes when the sea came to Dunwich because they weren’t ready to push it back. Either we start sympathising and supporting those across the world who face this fate today, or we renounce the sympathy of others when we eventually face the fate that our ancestors knew all too well. We need to learn from the cities we’ve lost; sometimes you have to sink a city to save one.

 
 
 
 

Transport for London’s fare zones secretly go up to 15

Some of these stations are in zones 10 to 12. Ooooh. Image: TfL.

The British capital, as every true-blooded Londoner knows, is divided into six concentric zones, from zone 1 in the centre to zone 6 in the green belt-hugging outer suburbs.

These are officially fare zones, which Transport for London (TfL) uses to determine the cost of your tube or rail journey. Unofficially, though, they’ve sort of become more than that, and like postcodes double as a sort of status symbol, a marker of how London-y a district actually is.

If you’re the sort of Londoner who’s also interested in transport nerdery, or who has spent any time studying the tube map, you’ll probably know that there are three more zones on the fringes of the capital. These, numbered 7 to 9, are used to set and collect fares at non-London stations where the Oyster card still works. But they differ from the first six, in that they aren’t concentric rings, but random patches, reflecting not distance from London but pre-existing and faintly arbitrary fares. Thus it is that at some points (on the Overground to Cheshunt, say) trains leaving zone 6 will visit zone 7. But at others they jump to 8 (on the train to Dartford) or 9 (on TfL rail to Brentwood), or skip them altogether.

Anyway: it turns out that, although they’re keeping it fairly quiet, the zones don’t stop at 9 either. They go all the way up to 15.

So I learned this week from the hero who runs the South East Rail Group Twitter feed, when they (well, let’s be honest: he) tweeted me this:

The choice of numbers is quite odd in its way. Purfleet, a small Thames-side village in Essex, is not only barely a mile from the London border, it’s actually inside the M25. Yet it’s all the way out in the notional zone 10. What gives?

TfL’s Ticketing + Revenue Update is a surprisingly jazzy internal newsletter about, well, you can probably guess. The September/October 2018 edition, published on WhatDoTheyKnow.com following a freedom of information request, contains a helpful explanation of what’s going on. The expansion of the Oyster card system

“has seen [Pay As You Go fare] acceptance extended to Grays, Hertford East, Shenfield, Dartford and Swanley. These expansions have been identified by additional zones mainly for PAYG caping and charging purposes.

“Although these additional zones appear on our staff PAYG map, they are no generally advertised to customers, as there is the risk of potentially confusing users or leading them to think that these ones function in exactly the same way as Zones 1-6.”


Fair enough: maps should make life less, not more, confusing, so labelling Shenfield et al. as “special fares apply” rather than zone whatever makes some sense. But why don’t these outer zone fares work the same way as the proper London ones?

“One of the reasons that the fare structure becomes much more complicated when you travel to stations beyond the Zone 6 boundary is that the various Train Operating Companies (TOCs) are responsible for setting the fares to and from their stations outside London. This means that they do not have to follow the standard TfL zonal fares and can mean that stations that are notionally indicated as being in the same fare zone for capping purposes may actually have very different charges for journeys to/from London."

In other words, these fares have been designed to fit in with pre-existing TOC charges. Greater Anglia would get a bit miffed if TfL unilaterally decided that Shenfield was zone 8, thus costing the TOC a whole pile of revenue. So it gets a higher, largely notional fare zone to reflect fares. It’s a mess. No wonder TfL doesn't tell us about them.

These “ghost zones”, as the South East Rail Group terms them, will actually be extending yet further. Zone 15 is reserved for some of the western-most Elizabeth line stations out to Reading, when that finally joins the system. Although whether the residents of zone 12 will one day follow in the venerable London tradition of looking down on the residents of zones 13-15 remains to be seen.

Jonn Elledge was the founding editor of CityMetric. He is on Twitter as @jonnelledge and on Facebook as JonnElledgeWrites.