Part 3

But most difficult of all is the question of dealing with the narrow High Street of a town or village through which a main artery passes. Occasionally the jerry-builder has anticipated us here, and has erected some terrible Victorian nightmare of a shop right up to the old building-line of the historical cottages that he has demolished. In such a case the children of the Petrol Age may be able to expiate the sins of their fathers by pulling down that shop. But more often there is a building of real merit standing at the very bottleneck through which the procession of traffic has to squeeze its way, such as the old church at Barnet or the Whitgift Hospital at Croydon; and then we are in a quandary, impressed on the one hand by the legitimate needs of our time, deterred on the other hand by an almost religious sense of the sanctity of the past. Sometimes the obstacle is a mere cottage, a barn, a pump, a stone cross, or a quaint structure such as blocks Hampstead Lane near the Spaniard’s Tavern, yet even these must be treated with respect. The “by-pass” road, as suggested in the next chapter, is sometimes the best solution, but is not practicable everywhere. And lastly, there are the trees. As I write these lines I can hear the crashes of falling elms and yews that I have known since childhood. A snorting tractor is pulling them down bodily with a steel hawser, so that the grass-lined lane that runs near my home may be widened for the growing needs of what was once a pretty village.

But a wide straight road does not exhaust the motorist’s requirements. He becomes thirsty at times, and the village inn has already risen to the occasion, usually, it must be admitted, without detriment to the village street. The architecture of licensed premises is looking up. His car also becomes thirsty, (hence the petrol-station), and its occasional liability to gastric trouble involves the provision at frequent intervals of telephone-cabins and repair-shops or garages. We may profitably consider the design of these accessories and their relation to country surroundings in the next chapter. The phenomenal development in the use of motor charabancs has involved the provision of extensive “parking-places” in all pleasure resorts, e.g., at Brighton, where a large part of the sea-view from the Esplanade is blocked. The provision of a “park” at Glastonbury has led to an outcry recently, and everywhere the problem is pressing.

Finally comes the very vexed question of housing, municipal and private, that has grown so acute since the War. In this movement the motorist has played a prominent part, for he has helped to extend the “Housing Problem,” from its obvious location on the fringes of our towns, away to the remoter parts of the country. From Kent to Hampshire the bungalows line our southern cliffs. Housing needs may be divided into three groups: those of the townsman, the rustic, and the week-ender. The first concerns us here only to the extent that new housing in urban districts must of necessity be provided in the adjoining rural areas: thus London is now so congested that its County Council has had to acquire large estates in Essex, Kent, and Middlesex to provide houses for city workers, who are quite properly dissatisfied with the tenement-dwellings that are their only alternative. Then, although in many country districts the population is decreasing, new standards of decency impel the newly-wed to demand something better than the leaking and verminous hovels where their parents dwell. All these new houses, whether in country or town, have been provided in increasing proportion by municipal enterprise since the War, and hence their design is subject to a measure of control. Whether that control is sufficient to ensure a tolerable standard of architectural expression is a matter for further consideration: at this point it is important to realise that practically all the post-War “Housing Schemes” have been scientifically laid out on rational lines, with due regard for the future. It is that central control, whether exercised by a public body or by a properly constituted private organisation, which makes all the difference between the “lay-out” of Becontree or Port Sunlight on the one hand and an average bungalow settlement on the other. One is a design, the other an accident,--and the Italian word for “accident” is _disgrazia_!

Some sixteen years ago I endeavoured to interest the inhabitants of the district where I live in the possibilities of the then newly-passed Town-Planning Act. The more enlightened among them readily responded, but there were some who said that this was a rural area and that they had no wish to see it turned into a town. Since then it _has_ turned itself into something resembling a town, but its growth has been spasmodic and irregular. A few years later came a proposal to acquire two fields in the centre of the district for a public park. Again the objectors appeared; what does a semi-village need with a public park, at a high price too? Fortunately the fields were acquired, and already they are nearly encircled by building plots. Meanwhile a great Arterial Road has been driven right across the new park, cutting it in half and reducing its attractions. Under a proper town-planning scheme such things would be impossible. Roads and parks would be laid out on paper years before they were required; and, though modifications of the first plan would become necessary from time to time, the ultimate gain would be enormous. Groups of adjoining authorities are already preparing regional town-planning schemes in concert, so that trunk roads may be provided in such a way as to pass through each area to its benefit and not to its detriment. If “Rusticus” stands too long while the river flows by, as the quotation on my title-page suggests, he will find the countryside engulfed.

In my last chapter something was said of the possibilities that the new science of Town-planning has to offer us, as a result of many years’ experience and experiment. We have seen the appearance of innumerable municipal housing-schemes, of “Satellite Towns” like Letchworth and the new Welwyn, of model industrial communities like Bournville and Port Sunlight, of communal efforts like the Hampstead Garden Suburb, of many admirable achievements in the developments of private enterprise. Originating at the time (1876 _et seq._) when Bedford Park was laid out, the idea developed slowly before the War and has made great strides since. It is one of the brightest spots in the history of English progress, but it has not been sufficient to stem the rush of _ersatz_ building that followed the War.

For it is the bungalow craze, with all that it now implies, which has most seriously damaged the appearance of rural England during the last eight years. There is nothing inherently unpleasant in the bungalow type of house. Properly designed and constructed, it may be made a thing of beauty harmonising perfectly with its surroundings. But, to my mind, its advantages have been grossly exaggerated. On the count of cost, the primary consideration nowadays, it shows no superiority over the two-floor house; reasonable privacy for its bedrooms is secured with difficulty; and it is apt to sprawl over the ground. One cannot quite realise why it has been so much favoured in recent years; possibly it is merely a transient fashion, like face-powder or crinolines. There was a great and a genuine demand for houses after the War, which had to be satisfied. Nine people out of ten took what they could get, and they got bungalows. For the most part their _ménage_ consisted of husband, wife, and a two-seater. Neither servants nor children entered into the picture. There was a prejudice against everything connected with the pre-War period, especially with its social distinctions, and perhaps the ex-service man sought for the antithesis of the suburban villa. Accustomed for four years to scenes of ruin and to leaky Army huts, his mind readily accepted the slap-dash bungalow with its familiar barbed-wire fence and no-man’s-land of a garden. The effect of flimsiness and impermanence that characterises so many of these little buildings may be ascribed to three causes: the difficulty of paying for a house _and_ a car out of an income that only provided a house before the War, the prevalent restlessness which almost rejects the idea of settling down in one place and letting oneself “take root,” and the insidious hold that the architecture of dumps and sheds had gained on the average man’s mind in 1914-18. His two-seater carried him out into what was (at first) the peace of the country, where land was cheap. Run up at express speed to satisfy an enormous demand, these bungalows spread out for miles along the roads adjoining the towns, thus avoiding the road-making charges that have to be met on an ordinary estate. And next this “ribbon” development continued far out into the country, so that people who had a slight surplus after meeting their hire-purchase payments for car and furniture could enjoy a sight of the sea on Saturday and Sunday from a bungalow perched on the Sussex cliffs. Thus this singular movement has had its main effect in rural districts, whose little Councils, with their often rudimentary by-laws, find the problem almost beyond their power to solve.

For these bungalows are for the most part designed without knowledge or taste, without regard to the tradition of English architecture or the claims of the English landscape. They are generally built of flimsy machine-made materials, largely imported from abroad. Yet they have satisfied a perfectly legitimate demand for accommodation, they have been erected honestly by builders and paid for by their owners, and they have so far complied with the laws of the land that they have earned a Government “subsidy” towards their cost. Hence the bungalow, which many of us regard as the motorist’s least acceptable gift to the countryside, constitutes a topic which must be criticised with extreme tact and caution.

There must be many beauty-spots in England that have been spoilt by motorists and charabancs since the War, but as a fair case one may cite X---- in Romney Marsh. A few years ago this was an artists’ paradise and a haven of peace. It has now become a glorified bus-park, where one is surrounded by petrol-pumps, garages, blatant exorbitant cafés run by loud-voiced aliens, “souvenir” shops full of Brummagem and German products, ice-carts, and innumerable direction-posts to “ladies’ cloak rooms.” All the charm of the place has gone in bribes to the tripper, and when he tires of it the ugliness will remain. When one sees a beautiful village or landscape prostituted to such ends, one wishes that the petrol-engine had never been invented.

But is ugliness an inevitable concomitant of motoring? Last April it was my good fortune to travel some 200 miles over the main roads of Tuscany. In that considerable distance I saw not a single petrol-station, and hardly a poster or a hoarding. The petrol-pumps must have been there, but at any rate they were not obtrusive enough to attract notice. Some people may say that the apparent absence of these accessories of civilisation furnishes an additional proof of Italian backwardness, others that the iron hand of Mussolini prevents progress; but to me, as a lover of Italy, it is a satisfaction that she has contrived to reconcile the legitimate needs of to-day with the beauty of her countryside.

V

THE FUTURE

The first part of this little book described rural England as it existed in its unsullied perfection, the second part the regrettable changes due mainly to the use of coal and petrol, and now we have to consider what prospect there is of saving the best of the old and making the best of the new. If “Rusticus” desires to preserve the remainder of his heritage, he must adopt some bolder policy than that of gazing at the flowing stream. Nor will the tactics of Canute serve his purpose: the tide of “civilisation” will not stop for him. There is every indication that it will flow with undiminished velocity in the coming years.

Our efforts must therefore be directed to two objects: the preservation of such relics of the past as are of recognised worth, and the regulation of all tendencies that are harmful to the beauty of the countryside. It is heartening to see, in the recent formation of the Council for the Preservation of Rural England, some public expression of interest in this vital matter. Without presuming to offer suggestions to so august a body, it is my purpose to set down in order the chief factors in the situation, present and future.

In a previous passage it has been remarked that ruin as such is a matter for regret, not for admiration. One might go a step further and say that old buildings are not necessarily good buildings. Strictly speaking, that is true, but is also dangerous doctrine. Nearly all old buildings _are_ good buildings, and when we find one that we are disposed to reckon as bad, we must not forget that the canons of architectural taste have always been fickle. In the eighteenth century Gothic buildings were ridiculed, and were treated accordingly. In the nineteenth, taste was completely reversed. On the other hand, certain architects of the Gothic Revival were so enamoured of a special variety of Gothic that they endeavoured to remould all old churches of any differing period nearer to their hearts’ desire. Hence the formation in 1877 of that body which is familiarly and even affectionately known as the “Anti-Scrape,” more precisely as the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. It was founded by architects and others to protest against excessive zeal in “restoration” by architects and others, and has done a noble work. It is still maintained partly by architects, whose disinterested efforts in preserving old buildings are worthy of note because architects naturally depend for their living mainly on _new_ buildings. As its headquarters are in London, its work in other centres is most effectively done through the medium of a local committee. The essential qualifications for such a committee are taste and disinterestedness. Suppose that an old cottage or barn on a village street in Blankshire is threatened with demolition. If the matter is brought to the notice of the Blankshire local committee by any self-appointed (even anonymous) “informer,” that committee will offer an opinion, backed by the expert advice of the S.P.A.B., who may be able to suggest some alternative to demolition. Their knowledge of the technical details of restoration is unrivalled, especially as regards building materials suitable for use in an old structure. If the cottage is older than A.D. 1714 and of sufficient merit, the aid of the Ancient Monuments Commission may be invoked. Once such a building is scheduled as an “ancient monument,” the owner is deprived of his right to demolish or alter it, and its existence is safeguarded by the Government. Another means of frustrating base designs on an old building is to appeal to the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty, who may be induced to launch an appeal through the Press for funds to purchase it. At present they maintain over twenty buildings, including some which are of literary interest (e.g., Coleridge’s cottage) rather than of great antiquity. A third alternative is to enlist the sympathies of a local authority or a local philanthropist. In any case the delay in demolition caused by creating an outcry will serve a useful purpose, for a thoughtless owner may be led to reconsider his original intentions, and by so doing may find that the building may be preserved after all. The restoration of old buildings is much more practicable than any yet discovered use of monkey-gland is to old people. But of course there are cases,--and sentimentalists are apt to overlook this fact,--where an old building has no architectural merit, and simply must give way before the march of progress. It is difficult, too, to see how a man can be compelled to maintain a disused windmill. It may be added that bridges are among the “buildings” scheduled as “Ancient Monuments.”

As regards natural features, it must be generally known that the National Trust, already mentioned, has been very active during recent years in acquiring and preserving all manner of beauty-spots in England, including such various sites as the mountains of the Lake District, strategical points on the North and South Downs, river banks, hill-tops and cliff-tops all over the country. Unfortunately the era of enclosing commons is not yet over, and another organisation--the Commons and Footpaths Preservation Society--was founded in 1865 to further the excellent objects indicated by its title. It saved Epping Forest, Hampstead Heath, Wimbledon Common and many other familiar places for us, and continues to watch over the interests of all lovers of the country. But, like the other societies mentioned here, its activities are limited by its funds. However, we must remember that any district which has adopted a town-planning scheme can now invoke the majesty of the law to save its open spaces and natural features, for the first Schedule of the Town-Planning Act of 1925 includes a reference to “the preservation of objects of historical interest or natural beauty.”

There have been many recent agitations--notably in regard to Ken Wood, the Seven Sisters, the Devil’s Dyke, and the Darenth Valley--which have shown that, in the last extremity, the public will sometimes rise to the occasion when a beauty-spot is threatened.

Considering the narrowness of the average village High Street, and the concentration of its historical relics in its centre, there is much to be said for the construction of a “by-pass” road to carry through traffic round the village. Otherwise the village green, the pond, the stocks, the inns, and nearly all the old landmarks would have to go. Traders object in the case of the larger towns, but vested interests always turn up somewhere, and it seems fairly certain that the “by-pass” road meets the needs of the greater number besides preserving the old village intact. Eventually there will have to be a ring-road round all old cities, like Oxford, which stand at the intersection of important highways, or the concentration of traffic at the centre will become unmanageable.

We have hardly grown accustomed yet to the great new arterial roads, though several are already in use. They seem to me to represent one of our highest achievements in civil engineering as they sweep majestically through cuttings and over embankments with an uninterrupted width of a hundred feet or more. In some ways they are the biggest thing we have in England, out of scale with our doll’s-house villages and landscapes, and out of character with our little winding lanes. It will be years before the trees that line them turn them into magnificent avenues, but by that time we shall have learned to accept them and even to admire them. Presumably we shall see an end of telegraph-poles soon, and that will be all to the good. But there are other things that engineers might bear in mind. The great road that runs south-west from Birmingham to the Lickey Hills, a noble highway in width, is disfigured by tramway poles and wires. Is that necessary in 1927? Surely the petrol-engine, which has done much to spoil the country, can atone for some of its crimes here by taking the place of electrically driven vehicles?

In Birmingham, as in the narrow streets of Ipswich, and--still worse--in the beautiful Wharfedale valley, is to be seen a more frightful abortion, the “trackless tram.” There has been a proposal to extend this hideous system in Wharfedale on a broad highway cutting across some fine country. Surely motor-buses could serve every purpose that the lumbering trackless tram fulfils.

The new arterial roads start with a clean sheet: it is to be hoped that it will remain clean. Recently the Minister of Transport addressed a circular to local authorities, reminding them that, under the powers conferred on them by the Advertisement Regulation Act of 1907, they could take action in respect of unsightly advertisements along the great new arteries, and urging them to do so. One distinct advantage of modern road-construction is that the dust nuisance has practically ceased to exist. Another innovation that has recently appeared is a small black and white “lighthouse” at every important crossing. The Ministry of Transport might institute a competition for designs for these useful but not always beautiful accessories.

The question of road-development is inextricably bound up with the larger question of town-planning, on which I have touched already in another connection. Before approaching the vital matter of controlling the design of individual buildings, we must consider this wider aspect. The fact is that town-planning enthusiasts are disappointed with the progress made since the passing of the 1909 Act. We had hoped for more far-reaching results. The nation as a whole has failed to realise the importance of this question or the great responsibility that legislation has put upon all local authorities. Whether from the point of view of appearance, of health, or of mere business, town-planning is the only national method of providing for the future.