THERE could be no more powerful physical evidence of the former importance of maritime trade to London than its vast docklands. These extend over an area of about nine square miles on both sides of the River Thames, downstream from Tower Bridge to Greenwich and Woolwich. It’s an area that has completely changed its character over the past 40 years, from an industrial to a residential district. Over the same period, the Thames itself has been transformed from a thoroughfare and open drain to a public amenity.
The first London docks were developed over the course of the 17th century and included the offices and dockyard of the wealthy East India Company at Blackwall, constructed in 1612–14. It was not until the 18th century, however, that the sheer volume of shipping began to overwhelm the existing quays and wharves of the City. By the 1770s, the Upper Pool of London, the area downstream of London Bridge, had become a bottleneck. Such was the pressure of shipping that it was possible to be stuck here for weeks at a time, with goods vulnerable to pilfering. Secure quays and warehouses capable of operating free from the constraints of the tide became essential.
The first major facility of this kind was West India Docks—begun in 1799 and completed in 1802. As a surviving inscription set into the massive perimeter wall explains, it was built ‘for the distinct purpose of complete security and ample accommodation (hitherto not afforded) to the shipping and produce of the West Indies… an undertaking which under the favour of God, shall contribute stability, increase and ornament to British commerce’.
Denne historien er fra July 01, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra July 01, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.