of These Isles

Like every monarch of distinction, Edward III understood the power of royal imagery. Perhaps nowhere is this more beautifully or more concisely expressed than in his Gold Double Leopard of 1344. This remarkable coin presents Edward, enthroned beneath a Gothic canopy, holding the sceptre and orb of sovereignty, flanked by two heraldic lions. Fleurs-de-lis surround the king, proclaiming his claim to the French crown, with the Latin inscription delineating his dominion: Edward, by the Grace of God, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland. Every detail on the obverse serves a purpose: the lions, traditionally termed leopards in English heraldry, evoke the majesty of the English crown; the fleurs-de-lis proclaim dynastic ambition; the throne and canopy elevate the king into an almost sacred realm. This last interpretation is reinforced by the coin’s reverse: a large ornamental cross, surrounded by crowns and heraldic lions, with Gothic quatrefoils and elaborate tracery, all encircled by an inscription quoting Luke 4:30: IHC TRANSIENS PER MEDIUM ILLORUM IBAT Jesus, passing through the midst of them, went his way. Even if not intended to suggest Edward’s elevation into a sacred realm, the reverse at least invokes divine protection. The coin is a portrait of kingship as Edward wished it to be understood: powerful, legitimate, Christian, and destined for greatness. In many ways, Edward went on to embody these ideals: his reign brought military triumphs at Crécy and Poitiers, expanding English influence in France; he fostered a flourishing chivalric culture and established the Order of the Garter, the prestige of which endures to this day. The image Edward cultivated was that of a warrior king, combining martial prowess with the ceremonial splendour of Arthurian legend, under the divine protection of Christ.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. — For the Fallen, Laurence Binyon

Remembering the great Richard Burton, on what would have been his 101st birthday. One of the most distinctive voices of British theatre: mellifluous, resonant, and unmistakably Welsh.

There are but few words that might honour those who sacrificed their lives for our sake with as much poignancy as this painting by Sir William Orpen. Orpen had been commissioned to record the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, following the First World War. To document such signal moments in history, not least the signing of the Treaty of Versailles in the magnificent Hall of Mirrors, might seem a great honour. Yet Orpen became increasingly troubled by the contrast between the grandeur and ceremony afforded to the politicians negotiating peace and the ordinary soldiers whose courage and suffering, whose very lives, had been sacrificed in order to make that moment possible. Thus, amongst his commemorative works, Orpen created this profoundly moving piece: To the Unknown British Soldier in France. Amidst the palatial splendour of Versailles lies a single coffin, draped in the Union Jack, upon which rests a Brodie helmet. There is no face, no name, no means of identifying the soldier who lies within. Instead, we are invited to reflect upon how true this was for so many who went to war and never came home: remains never identified, families never knowing the true fate of their loved ones, no opportunity to say goodbye or to visit a graveside in the hope of finding some measure of solace. Though we see one coffin, we remember thousands. Rather than celebrating the statesmen and dignitaries, Orpen placed the fallen soldier at the very heart of the picture. All who become embroiled in war bear its heavy burden, but none more so than those who give their lives. The beam of light which falls upon the coffin draws our eyes towards the far end of the darkened hall, where Christ hangs upon the Cross. We see the sacrifice of the soldier, unknown to us yet known to Christ, bathed in the light of His ultimate sacrifice. Every life lost represents a person loved. May their sacrifice not be in vain. Lest we forget.

‘The Face of the 60s’ Born on this day in Buckinghamshire in 1942, Jean Shrimpton went on to become one of the world’s first and most recognisable supermodels. With her striking eyes, long legs, distinctive fringe and effortless style, she helped to redefine fashion and beauty for a new generation. Frequently photographed by David Bailey, whom she later credited with helping to shape her career, Jean became synonymous with Swinging London, a period in which British fashion, music, photography and popular culture captured the imagination of the Western world. Jean’s influence extended far beyond Britain. In 1965, she caused an international sensation when she appeared at Melbourne’s Derby Day wearing a simple white mini dress, without the customary hat, gloves or stockings. As one can imagine, Jean’s scandalously bare legs beneath the dramatically short hemline caused quite the stir. It became one of the most memorable fashion moments of the decade, capturing the changing spirit of the age. Jean was, quite simply, ‘The Face of the Moment’. To be blessed with such beauty is a gift, though Jean herself apparently felt that she was too ‘pretty, pretty’ and a little ‘vacant-looking’. This appears to have been a genuinely held opinion, rather than an expression of mere modesty, with David Bailey once remarking that she ‘honestly never understood what all the fuss was about’. Indeed, there is something especially endearing about those who are seemingly unaware of their own charms. To be surrounded by beauty, whether in people, art, architecture or the natural world, is one of life’s great pleasures. Jean Shrimpton certainly gave the world something beautiful to celebrate.

‘Syd, you’ve most certainly got a winner here!’ Today marks the 91st anniversary of the maiden flight of one of Britain’s most important fighting aircraft: the Hawker Hurricane. At Brooklands, Hawker’s chief test pilot, Flight Lieutenant P. W. S. ‘George’ Bulman, took prototype K5083 into the air for the first time. It was a muted occasion, photography forbidden and just 80 witnesses, no press. There had nearly been no flight at all, as just two days earlier, Rolls-Royce had informed Hawker that the prototype’s Merlin engine had failed its 50-hour certification test. Nevertheless, Bulman persisted. During a flight lasting around 30 minutes, he tested the aircraft’s handling, performed a slow roll and reached approximately 300 mph in a gentle dive. Upon landing, Bulman scrawled notes on a secretary’s notepad before delivering his verdict to designer Sydney Camm: ‘Syd, you’ve most certainly got a winner here!’ How true this proved to be. The Hurricane became one of the defining aircraft of the Battle of Britain and the Second World War. Its contribution to Britain’s survival during the summer of 1940 cannot be overstated. Although the Supermarine Spitfire became the enduring symbol of the battle, the more numerous Hurricanes accounted for approximately 55% of RAF aerial victories. The two aircraft complemented one another perfectly: the faster, more agile Spitfires generally engaged enemy fighters, while the Hurricanes concentrated on the bombers. This strategic collaboration helped to deny the Luftwaffe the air superiority required to initiate Operation Sea Lion, Hitler’s planned invasion of Britain. The Hurricane’s relatively uncomplicated construction, durability and ease of repair were among its greatest assets. Having been battered in the skies above Britain, she could be repaired and returned to the fight with remarkable speed. Perhaps less captivating than the Spitfire’s graceful dance, these qualities enabled the Hurricane to be deployed in defence of these Isles with extraordinary success. The Hawker Hurricane was not simply one of the great fighters of the Second World War, but one upon which Britain’s survival depended.

Remember, remember… This remarkable engraving, produced around 1605 by Crispijn de Passe the Elder, offers an intriguing insight into how the Gunpowder Plot was represented to contemporary audiences. The Latin inscription describes seven noblemen conspiring against James I and the assembled English Parliament; the eighth man is Thomas Bates, Catesby’s servant. We know the story of the Plot well, but it is interesting to consider it through this particular portrayal. The eight conspirators are dressed as fashionable gentlemen, with elaborate collars, well-groomed beards and carefully coiffed hair. They are a far cry from the stereotypical image of wild-eyed religious zealots or common criminals. Indeed, they appear to be respectable members of society. Moreover, their faces are strikingly similar, suggesting that, rather than eight distinct personalities, we are presented with a collective image of conspiracy. Herein lies a potentially sinister implication. The threat of treachery came not from the conspicuous fanatic, but from someone far more familiar: the Catholic neighbour, businessman, landowner or acquaintance we might encounter on the street. Suspicion was justified precisely because the potential traitor looked like everyone else. In the early seventeenth century, Catholics had hoped that James I would extend religious toleration. Those hopes had already been disappointed before the Plot’s discovery, and its aftermath provided a convenient justification for further religious restrictions. One such measure was the 1606 Oath of Allegiance, which required Catholics to renounce the Pope’s claimed authority to depose the monarch or absolve subjects of their allegiance to the Crown. The annual commemoration of 5 November helped to embed the association between Catholicism and treason in English public life; the occasional papal effigy can be espied in the odd field to this day. Perhaps, then, the most effective propaganda was not that which portrayed Catholics as religious fanatics, but that which encouraged suspicion of the respectable gentleman next door. After all, if treason could wear such a familiar face, who could truly be trusted?