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.

 
 
 
 

There isn’t a war on the motorist. We should start one

These bloody people. Image: Getty.

When should you use the horn on a car? It’s not, and anyone who has been on a road in the UK in living memory will be surprised to hear this, when you are inconvenienced by traffic flow. Nor is it when you are annoyed that you have been very slightly inconvenienced by another driver refusing to break the law in a manner that is objectively dangerous, but which you perceive to be to your advantage.

According to the Highway Code:

“A horn should only be used when warning someone of any danger due to another vehicle or any other kind of danger.”

Let’s be frank: neither you nor I nor anyone we have ever met has ever heard a horn used in such a manner. Even those of us who live in or near places where horns perpetually ring out due to the entitled sociopathy of most drivers. Especially those of us who live in or near such places.

Several roads I frequently find myself pushing a pram up and down in north London are two way traffic, but allow parking on both sides. This being London that means that, in practice, they’re single track road which cars can enter from both ends.

And this being London that means, in practice, that on multiple occasions every day, men – it is literally always men – glower at each other from behind the steering wheels of needlessly big cars, banging their horns in fury that circumstances have, usually through the fault of neither of them, meant they are facing each other on a de facto single track road and now one of them is going to have to reverse for a metre or so.

This, of course, is an unacceptable surrender as far as the drivers’ ego is concerned, and a stalemate seemingly as protracted as the cold war and certainly nosier usually emerges. Occasionally someone will climb out of their beloved vehicle and shout and their opponent in person, which at least has the advantages of being quieter.

I mentioned all this to a friend recently, who suggested that maybe use of car horns should be formally restricted in certain circumstances.

Ha ha ha. Hah.

The Highway Code goes on to say -

“It is illegal to use a horn on a moving vehicle on a restricted road, a road that has street lights and a 30 mph limit, between the times of 11:30 p.m. and 07:00 a.m.”

Is there any UK legal provision more absolutely and comprehensively ignored by those to whom it applies? It might as well not be there. And you can bet that every single person who flouts it considers themselves law abiding. Rather than the perpetual criminal that they in point of fact are.


In the 25 years since I learned to drive I have used a car horn exactly no times, despite having lived in London for more than 20 of them. This is because I have never had occasion to use it appropriately. Neither has anyone else, of course, they’ve just used it inappropriately. Repeatedly.

So here’s my proposal for massively improving all UK  suburban and urban environments at a stroke: ban horns in all new cars and introduce massive, punitive, crippling, life-destroying fines for people caught using them on their old one.

There has never been a war on motorists, despite the persecution fantasies of the kind of middle aged man who thinks owning a book by Jeremy Clarkson is a substitute for a personality. There should be. Let’s start one. Now.

Phase 2 will be mandatory life sentences for people who don’t understand that a green traffic light doesn’t automatically mean you have right of way just because you’re in a car.

Do write in with your suggestions for Phase 3.