We live reasonably close to the long south side of Hyde Park, Harrod's side, Knightsbridge, though we rarely get to walk in the park as we are usually heading right past it, albeit ogling. On the shorter east side side of Hyde Park lie Selfridges, Oxford street: this is Mayfair. We have spent some time exploring that. While on the north side is Marble Arch, St George's Fields and the little known triangle of town called 'Tyburnia'. We were heading to this area when the bus driver decided he had had enough of the traffic and called a halt not far from Harrods, so we decided to walk, short-cutting through Hyde Park, passing the gravelled Rotten Row reminiscent of Regency era carriage rides and promenades, taking time to enjoy yet another lovely day that has come our way in London.
This beautiful weather continues, with little variation in sight, though they must be missing the rain as even the mobile sprinklers were out and about, enroute. And the squirrel and ducks were sharing a drink from a wee pond. It was an ice-cream kind of day, so, of course, we stopped for one. Our goal today lay past Marble Arch, which, originally, was built as the ceremonial entrance to the Buckingham Palace courtyard. Traditionally, that meant that only royalty, the king's troops and the Royal horse artillery would be allowed to pass through it. These days, though, with street widening and diverse traffic, it has lost its original function and now sits on a spare lonely island of concrete, somewhat like a small city gate, on land that separates Tyburnia from Mayfair.
We headed to another lonely spot on another concrete island marked with a plaque: The Site of Tyburn Tree. In times gone by criminals, king's wives and their lovers, parliamentarians and bishops who have fallen from grace and favour, along with highwaymen and pirates were oft sent to the gallows. A stream rising from the heights of Hampstead heath flowed southward to the Thames, close by here, in London's early days, Tyburn River. Its banks were lined with sturdy elms, strong enough to string together to make a temporary gallows when needed. And they often were needed.
By and by, a permanent gallows came to be set up in this spot, it is believed. A triple tree gallows. Three rough timbers were bound together in a triangle, nine feet long, eighteen feet from the ground, which could bear the weight of 24 criminals in one session. Some 50,000 folk were hanged at Tyburn tree. Often on a Monday. Often with bleachers filled with viewing folk, attending just for the kill. Without the gladiatorial contest beforehand.
We keep finding such execution sites all over London: down on the Thames waterfront, at the Smithfield Market close to the old Newgate Prison, and now, here. London's gruesome history continues to percolate, just as the Tyburn flows, these days beneath the streets, silent and subterranean now, out to the Thames. The riverside elms long gone. It is not surprising that the gallows took the name of the river: Tyburn. What is surprising is that the 19th century developers, when they needed more housing at the time Belgravia and Mayfair and were similarly being developed, chose to market this area with the name Tyburnia. It's association with the grisly gallows, you would think would not do it any favours. But, it is still an expensive place: albeit not quite as expensive as the other two.
Tyburnia, itself, is a small triangle of development around Connaught Square: with gracious homes around its private park. Tony Blair lives right in the heart of that square. And like the Beckhams further north has bought one of the large front townhouses along with the back mews, and all the connecting space between the two for gardens, giving himself and his family plenty of space in which to lose the four policemen who stand guard 24 hours a day on both the front and back steps. The Met's CO6 Diplomatic Protection unit. Which I find an astonishing expense for citizens to have to continue to bear. Celebrities and ex-politicians who make such massive fortunes from their positions, and continue to profit, should, I believe, really be responsible for their own security. They are paid enough.
And these guys bear machine guns, each of them. In what is hardly a war zone. Albeit, a bit of an irony, given that Tony Blair started the war in Iraq, and now lives at the very heart of a neighbourhood filled with Arab princelings and their bored chauffeurs. Guess who is not coming to dinner. Even the local restaurants advertise in the predominant language of the area.
The neighbourhood still bears many blue plaques telling of folk who have been happy to spend time here: Richard Branson, for one. As a student in the 60's he lived in the basement of a flat here and set about developing his entrepreneurial skills interviewing radical celebrities of the day and writing about them. One of his school masters predicted he would end up either in jail or as a millionaire: he very nearly did both.
The last Rajah of Sarawak lived in in another townhouse, dripping with wisteria, until he died: Sir Charles Vyner Brooke. An odd fellow, even for his generation. The type, who on losing his eye had it replaced with a glass one taken from his stuffed albatross. The type, who would not think twice about throttling his wife's pet doves then having them served up to her for dinner: "Pigeon pie, darling?". He was the third Brooke family member to take over as the White Rajahs of Sarawak, ruling a huge slab of swamp, crocodile and mosquito-infected Sarawak, about the size of England, thanks to an agreement with the Sultan of Brunei who needed someone with a sense of authority to subjugate the locals. Charles seemed to have the drill down pat. One of his rulings even encouraged his British officers to take local women as lovers, so they might act as 'sleeping dictionaries' and his men might master the local language. Distinctly odd fellow, Charles. A great subject for a movie, though.
The back streets are filled with exclusive smart shops. And smart arcades dripping with lamps. It is a quiet place, Tyburnia. Though, during the development of the square they dug up so many hundreds of skeleton bones that one historian has argued that the Tyburn gallows might actually have been sited there, at Tyburnia's heart, rather than on its periphery. Right handy for politicians, then: our modern day highwaymen. Not a place for machine guns. So, enough, already.
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