Park Life: In search of the lost palace of Wanstead Park

On the map: the location of Wanstead Park, in the wilds of east London. Image: Google.

Way out in deepest east London, in the southernmost reaches of Epping Forest, lies Wanstead Park. It’s basically fine, as parks go. There are all the normal things you could ask from a park: some grass, some trees, a shortcut to the supermarket if you’re me. Like a lot of parks ultimately the history is broadly speaking, quite simple: “A load of rich bastards owned it until they couldn’t be bothered to anymore and flogged it off to a municipal authority.

But had a single decision gone the other way, a walk across Wanstead Park could have been a walk through the grounds of a royal palace. Oh, and the last 200 years of British history might have run a very different course.

For several centuries the park formed the grounds of various different buildings known as Wanstead House – one of which was even a Royal pad for a bit Henry VII bought it for the convenient hunting opportunities (possibly also as a nice quiet place to fiddle some finances), and apparently the ghost of Elizabeth I haunts the grounds pining after another owner, Robert Dudley (when she isn’t in one of the seven million other places she’s supposed to haunt, I guess).

Eventually, the house passed on to New Money, namely Sir Josiah Child, a humble merchant’s son who had made ‘mad bank’ by ‘doing imperialism’ with the East India Company - and then to his son, Richard, aka the Early Tylney, who knocked the house down and built a massive, massive replacement. Built in the then fashionable Palladian style (i.e. lots of columns and triangley bits to give the impression of a Greek temple), it was extravagant in the extreme, a palace in all but name - it was likely the first private house in the UK to include a purpose-built ballroom. The gardens were completely remade around the same time - the park’s extensive series of ponds are in fact the remains of ornamental lakes.

Wanstead House as completed in 1722. I'll take 3! Image: public domain.

So where is it? Well, by the 1800s the ‘family line’ had zigged and zagged a bit due reasons such as ‘inheritor of house not interested in sexy times with ladies’ and ‘inheritor of house dies as child’ and in 1805 it and the associated fortune passed to teenage heiress Catherine Tylney-Long, who for totally unrelated reasons immediately became the most marriageable woman in all of England.

The front-runners for her hand were a) the Duke of Clarence - cons: quite old and fat, had spent the last 20 years living with (and had had 10 kids with) his mistress, pros: the future William IV, king of the United Kingdom or b) William Wellesley-Pole - pros: dashing Mr Darcy prototype, relative of top war hero the Duke of Wellington, cons: total wanker. For inevitable swooning related reasons, Wellesley-Pole won, and they became the Pole-Tylney-Long-Wellesleys. Inevitable jokes about William’s Long Pole were promptly born.

 The Grotto - the remains of a folly in which Wellesley-Pole was reputed (hopefully falsely) to have kept his wife locked up. (mage: author's own.

And he truly was a dick of the highest order: not only was he a philandering shitbag, within a decade he'd managed to burn through as much of Catherine’s money as he could get his hands on living the highest life he could afford. With cash exhausted and debts mounting up, he was left with no choice other than flogging the contents of Wanstead House, and then, because he was not legally allowed to sell to the house itself, the component parts. He literally had it smashed it up and sold it for scrap.

His wife died shortly afterwards, at the least miserably but plausibly of actual misery, and the line ended with their kids, neither of whom ever married (perhaps after seeing what it had done to their mother). Catherine’s ghost supposedly haunts the park, presumably on some kind of timeshare deal with Elizabeth I.

The Temple - originally home to Wanstead House's collection of exotic birds, now intermittently open as a visitor centre. Image: author's own.

What was left of the estate passed to a cousin, who in turn ended up flogging the chunk that’s now Wanstead Park to the City of London Corporation which by that point had taken up the cause of ‘Hey guys what if we didn’t chop down all of Epping Forest?’.


But what if a butterfly had flapped its wings, William Wellesley-Pole had crashed his horse into a tree, the future William IV and Catherine had fallen in love at the Under The Sea dance, and she’d become his queen?

In an alternate 2019, Wanstead House still stands but as a palace in name as well as affect. William IV’s niece, Victoria, got nowhere near the throne and instead his son William V led Britain into the glorious era historians refer to as ‘Big Willy Time’. But due to Civil War 2.0, today his descendants only rule over the small kingdom of Wanstead, which the Republic allowed them to keep in return for a cut of tourist revenue. I work in one of the kingdom’s factories, gluing Beefeater uniforms onto teddy bears for 16 hours a day, but my television has recently been picking up signals from a better world, where the palace gardens are open to all and I can get to the shops 20 minutes faster. The revolution starts here.

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

 
 
 
 

Wild boar are moving back to Genoa, and not everyone is pleased

A wild boar, c1933. Image: Getty.

Crossing the Ponte Gerolamo Serra in the Italian city of Genoa, I spotted a small crowd clustered by the river wall. I approached, intrigued, and peered over the wall to discover the subject of their delight: a sounder of eight wild boars – the adults sheltering from the heat in the undergrowth, while the juveniles foraged among the foliage that grows in the river bed during the dry summer months.

In any other city, such a sight might have been surprising. But in Italy, and particularly in the region of Liguria, where Genoa is located, the population of wild boars has been increasing at such a rapid rate that these incidents are now common. Across the country, it’s estimated that the population has risen from 600,000 to 1m over the past decade.

But while wild boars may look comically out of place trotting about the city, it’s actually a natural result of the way people have migrated – and the wars they have fought – over the course of recent history.

Making a comeback

A species native to Europe, the wild boar (or “cinghiale”, in Italian) largely disappeared from its historical territories during the 18th and 19th centuries. Their decline was widely attributed to the combined effects of habitat change, competition for space and resources and, of course, hunting.

Wild boars were a prized quarry, revered for their ferocity – and the danger involved in pursuing them. According to local folklore from the region of Liguria, the last truly wild boar was hunted and killed in 1814, in the province of Savona.

After an absence of more than a century, wild boar began to return to Liguria, and to the neighbouring region of Piedmont. A further influx occurred during World War I, when it’s believed that military activities in the south-east of France forced parts of the population back into Italy over the Alps.

Although hunting fraternities were quick to augment this fledgling population with wild boars transported from elsewhere, the return of the species was primarily due to natural causes. From the 1950s onwards, traditional agricultural practices were abandoned as more and more people moved from rural towns into the cities. This meant that large areas of formerly cultivated terraces and pastures were rapidly overgrown, fast becoming dense secondary woodlands.

A city gone wild

This spontaneous “rewilding” has become a controversial issue in the region. Many conservationists and environmental organisations consider the region’s return to a “wild state” a success. But others believe that the encroaching wilderness signals a loss of traditional woodland knowledge and a reduction of biodiversity, associated with the pastures and meadows.


The province of Genoa is among the areas most densely populated by wild boar in Italy, with an estimated 25 boar per 10km². Rewilding processes have brought woodlands to the city limits, blurring the boundary between rural and urban areas. The species has expanded beyond the hinterlands, colonising highly urbanised, densely populated city spaces in Genoa, drawn by the abundance of food waste created by humans.

In 2009, the infamous boar Pierino made his home at Righi, on the outskirts of Genoa, where he was routinely fed with focaccia by enthusiasts. Today, a family of wild boar call the Albergo dei Poveri – a historical hostel for the Genoese poor in the city centre – their home.

But while their antics are often recorded and shared with glee on social media, the threats posed by the presence of wild animals has become a preoccupation for the city’s municipal administration.

Boorish behaviour

Wild boar have been involved in a number of traffic accidents, and have proven to be particularly dangerous when with their young, attacking dogs and even people. The city council in Genoa has put forward many proposals to reduce the number of animals in the city, ranging from forced removals, to sterilisation, increased attention to waste disposal and approved hunts. About 90 wild boar were reportedly culled in 2018.

Needless to say, each of these measures has been hotly debated. Animal advocacy groups staunchly oppose the proposals, and sometimes obstruct the authorities’ attempts to take action, often sending patrols to care for the animals, and even give them names. But other residents are displeased with the animals’ presence in the city, and have consulted with the council on how to address the problems that they cause.

And so Genoa continues to grapple with thorny issues surrounding the presence of wild boar in the city, with the city authorities seeking to resolve a polemical issue that embroils the lives of animals and humans alike. So far, a collective, coherent and communally agreeable strategy has proven evasive; one that considers the need for public safety, hygiene and health with the ethical responsibilities towards to wild boar themselves.

Meanwhile, the animals themselves continue to lounge and forage beneath the Ponte Gerolamo Serra and elsewhere, bringing a little of the wilderness into the city.

The Conversation

Robert Hearn, Assistant Professor in Human Geography, University of Nottingham.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.