2024/09/08 Betjeman and Lament
Yesterday, I was down in London. Each train route from the corners of the country flows ultimately into the great basin of Greater London; and each of those esturaries wherein those rivers meets London are her great stations. Whether you arrive via Paddington, Marylebone, Victoria, or Waterloo, the great vaulted rigid steel beams and beauty built of stone and glass set high Victorian architecture as a real high watermark, unsurpassed by any structure made today. Living in Nottingham in the East Midlands periphery of London, the estuary for my river is St. Pancras Station. And every time I travel to London by that same route, I feel ever more patriotic for my home station. I remember once falling asleep on the train and missing my stop of Luton Airport - thankfully not for a flight - and waking up to unfamiliar scenery. Still groggy, the unfamiliar housing and fields made way for the steel-ribbed belly of St. Pancras' canopy: a truly surreal experience. Each time I visit, the beauty of the architecture never bores me; and each time I visit, including yesterday, I make a small pilgrimage to a statue of John Betjeman.
Betjeman was the poet laureate from the seventies to the early eighties. I first encountered his work some years ago, through a BBC documentary from the seventies called Metroland. The documentary, told through verse, tells the story of a journey from London to the fringes of Metroland: the world's first commuter belt. After having built the first underground railway, the Metropolitan Railway, then an independent company, bought up the small fruit orchards and grazing lands of rural Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire. Their aim was to promise a cake-eaters solution: to have the beauty and clean air of the country, paired with the employment and fortune of the London. Rewatching the documentary, it's safe to say that Betjeman doesn't look upon Metroland too kindly. He laments that much of the success of Metroland has been squandered; whilst some of the towns' nascent traditions continue, there is a lack of rootedness to these commuter belt towns. And we see this in many of these towns today. Wembley, Betjeman notes, was a sleepy village stop the Met line often skipped in days past. Wembley has since become synonymous with its great stadium, but since Betjeman's time has become synonymous with its majority South Asian population. By the end of the documentary, Betjeman visits the end of the line: the great plans the Metropolitan Railway had for the line prior to two World Wars never fulfilled. Their initial aim was to connect Manchester to Paris through the heart of rural England; an aim over a hundred years later HS2 is still struggling to achieve. Seeing the suburban lands making way for fields, Betjeman says, "an unregarded part of Hertfordshire awaits its fate". Here is a new lament: the lament of losing the King's England.
Growing up in Metroland myself, I feel Betjeman's lament. In the town of my birth, a tall sky-rise has been erected. As you approach, this horror is like a grey stake upon the horizon, piercing through the town's heart. Here is the first lament of Metroland which is its necrosis. The culture of village life these towns now of moderate size inherited is being squeezed out further and further by their growth. Community participation in village traditions as I've seen them has lessened and lessened as time's gone on, the lockdowns being a major hit. But the causes can't simply by placed upon the lockdowns' shoulders. In part it can be chalked to the economic necessity of two income households: a stay at home mother had far more time to participate in community life for her family. And in part the vast swell of population is also at fault. Metroland is a popular place to live, owing to the quietude and London jobs; and as part of creating affordable housing, the dream of a close patchwork of suburban cottages has been palmed off for large these sky-rise apartment flats. And then we meet the second lament: that seeing through the topsoil of suburbia to see the village life beneath, you begin to yearn the 'King's England' below. The pub is hardly as hearty when under the sign reads 'Greene King'; and if I were to describe Metroland in a word, it would be Greene King. Beneath is the history of an authentic pub; but that which is seen and experienced is the corporatised simulacrum. Betjeman's poem Hertfordshire channels these feelings perfectly.
And so, I would like to return to the statue from above. Betjeman is posed wind-swept by a train, dressed ready for a journey. He's looking up to the heavens - but with a somewhat stern look upon his brow. Betjeman is in St Pancras station as a statue because he led the movement to defend the station from being demolished. There is a tragedy in preserving the old ways, for the old ways can't last forever. There's so much beauty in the past, so much sense in the past, so much innocence that can never be recovered. And there are many boogiemen responsible for slaying this grandfather. But blaming Communists, Americans, Hippies, or whichever foolish historical action will never bring joy - just anger. When I look at the statue of Betjeman, what I see is lament. Through lament and sadness we can deal with injustices out of our control; for what else can we do but be sad? The past may well be a foreign country; and many like Betjeman (and perhaps myself) wish to visit. Dressed for travel, like the statue, but stationary; lamenting how the world's become; and staring to the heavens for hope: this is what I feel when I see this statue. And this is how I wish to live also. The gift of happiness is not something one should expect. Sometimes a situation means that happiness may be out of reach, a situation unable to be remedied. And whilst there is a time for action, organisation, and protestation, as Betjeman demonstrated with St Pancras station, the majority of the issues we face are wholly out of reach. We can't return the Metroland of today to its past sweet suburban communities; we can't return the Metroland of the past to the fertile orchards of Hertfordshire; but we can lament what was without bitterness, contempt, nor anger, and look to heaven for our hope.
Betjeman was the poet laureate from the seventies to the early eighties. I first encountered his work some years ago, through a BBC documentary from the seventies called Metroland. The documentary, told through verse, tells the story of a journey from London to the fringes of Metroland: the world's first commuter belt. After having built the first underground railway, the Metropolitan Railway, then an independent company, bought up the small fruit orchards and grazing lands of rural Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire. Their aim was to promise a cake-eaters solution: to have the beauty and clean air of the country, paired with the employment and fortune of the London. Rewatching the documentary, it's safe to say that Betjeman doesn't look upon Metroland too kindly. He laments that much of the success of Metroland has been squandered; whilst some of the towns' nascent traditions continue, there is a lack of rootedness to these commuter belt towns. And we see this in many of these towns today. Wembley, Betjeman notes, was a sleepy village stop the Met line often skipped in days past. Wembley has since become synonymous with its great stadium, but since Betjeman's time has become synonymous with its majority South Asian population. By the end of the documentary, Betjeman visits the end of the line: the great plans the Metropolitan Railway had for the line prior to two World Wars never fulfilled. Their initial aim was to connect Manchester to Paris through the heart of rural England; an aim over a hundred years later HS2 is still struggling to achieve. Seeing the suburban lands making way for fields, Betjeman says, "an unregarded part of Hertfordshire awaits its fate". Here is a new lament: the lament of losing the King's England.
Growing up in Metroland myself, I feel Betjeman's lament. In the town of my birth, a tall sky-rise has been erected. As you approach, this horror is like a grey stake upon the horizon, piercing through the town's heart. Here is the first lament of Metroland which is its necrosis. The culture of village life these towns now of moderate size inherited is being squeezed out further and further by their growth. Community participation in village traditions as I've seen them has lessened and lessened as time's gone on, the lockdowns being a major hit. But the causes can't simply by placed upon the lockdowns' shoulders. In part it can be chalked to the economic necessity of two income households: a stay at home mother had far more time to participate in community life for her family. And in part the vast swell of population is also at fault. Metroland is a popular place to live, owing to the quietude and London jobs; and as part of creating affordable housing, the dream of a close patchwork of suburban cottages has been palmed off for large these sky-rise apartment flats. And then we meet the second lament: that seeing through the topsoil of suburbia to see the village life beneath, you begin to yearn the 'King's England' below. The pub is hardly as hearty when under the sign reads 'Greene King'; and if I were to describe Metroland in a word, it would be Greene King. Beneath is the history of an authentic pub; but that which is seen and experienced is the corporatised simulacrum. Betjeman's poem Hertfordshire channels these feelings perfectly.
And so, I would like to return to the statue from above. Betjeman is posed wind-swept by a train, dressed ready for a journey. He's looking up to the heavens - but with a somewhat stern look upon his brow. Betjeman is in St Pancras station as a statue because he led the movement to defend the station from being demolished. There is a tragedy in preserving the old ways, for the old ways can't last forever. There's so much beauty in the past, so much sense in the past, so much innocence that can never be recovered. And there are many boogiemen responsible for slaying this grandfather. But blaming Communists, Americans, Hippies, or whichever foolish historical action will never bring joy - just anger. When I look at the statue of Betjeman, what I see is lament. Through lament and sadness we can deal with injustices out of our control; for what else can we do but be sad? The past may well be a foreign country; and many like Betjeman (and perhaps myself) wish to visit. Dressed for travel, like the statue, but stationary; lamenting how the world's become; and staring to the heavens for hope: this is what I feel when I see this statue. And this is how I wish to live also. The gift of happiness is not something one should expect. Sometimes a situation means that happiness may be out of reach, a situation unable to be remedied. And whilst there is a time for action, organisation, and protestation, as Betjeman demonstrated with St Pancras station, the majority of the issues we face are wholly out of reach. We can't return the Metroland of today to its past sweet suburban communities; we can't return the Metroland of the past to the fertile orchards of Hertfordshire; but we can lament what was without bitterness, contempt, nor anger, and look to heaven for our hope.