Читать книгу Taming the Flood: Rivers, Wetlands and the Centuries-Old Battle Against Flooding - Jeremy Purseglove - Страница 26

Nonetheless, the Otmoor riots mark the end of an era of open conflict on the wetlands. As the Victorian age got under way, ever more ingenious technologies aided the steady advance of drainage. The practice of ‘warping’, whereby tidal waters were made to flow back and deposit their rich silts over the land, was popular.⁴⁵ In 1839 John Rennie put forward proposals to reclaim the whole of the Wash, and to call the new land ‘Victoria County’. Similar megalomaniac schemes were proposed in the 1960s, but were never carried through. In 1837 George Stephenson, who had reason to detest the wetlands after his heroic battle to build a railway across Chat Moss, put forward an ambitious plan to reclaim the whole eastern side of Morecambe Bay by building a railway from Lancaster to Furness. His plan came to nothing, but successive railway engineers were to divert and canalize many miles of river as a by-product of their endeavours. On the credit side, as far as wetland habitat was concerned, where railways crossed valleys, they sometimes disrupted the drainage, creating small marshes which survive to this day. A similar mixed result had attended the efforts of earlier canal engineers. Thus James Brindley set out to drain Longdon Marsh in Worcestershire, and the duke of Bridgewater organized drainage of the northern part of Chat Moss as part of his canal building. More often, however, navigation engineers were at odds with drainage engineers, especially when they were working on existing rivers. To make most rivers navigable, the water level must be raised by building weirs; there is little doubt that the navigation structures built on the Leicestershire Soar in the 1770s worsened the local drainage, as did eighteenth-and nineteenth-century navigation works on the Thames and in Somerset.

The great copper butterfly, now extinct through drainage, depended in its life cycle upon the water dock.

In 1851, which, with symbolic appropriateness, was the year in which a hungry urban population exceeded for the first time the population of the countryside, drainage-minded landlords up from the shires were able to carry away a wealth of interesting ideas from the Great Exhibition. Pipe-tile-making machines were on show, as was a new centrifugal pump which ‘astonished the visitors’.⁴⁶ Within two years, Martin Mere, just south of the Fylde and Whittlesey Mere in the Fens, had been pumped dry.⁴⁷ By the late 1840s the English race of the great copper butterfly, which had retained its last stronghold around Whittlesey, had become extinct.⁴⁸ A symbol of the less controllable results of technology, the Holme Post, a cast-iron column believed by some to have come from the Crystal Palace, was sunk into the ground near Whittlesey, to measure peat shrinkage. Its replacement marker indicates a thirteen-foot drop between the present ground level and that of the mid-nineteenth century.

Technology was to transform not only the actual level of the land, but also the fine details of the wetland landscapes. Extracts from the account book of the Derwent Ings reveal the subtle alterations which took place in the space of two generations:

1867–8	Oct. 17th	Leather for the Clow.
	Oct. 19th	Cheese and bread on Ings Breaking Day.
1887–8		Paid J Binns for moles catching £1. 18s. od.
1910–11		Taking one ton of cement to bridge.
1923		Half cwt barbed wire fifteen shillings.49

William Morris. He challenged the Thames Conservancy over their felling of riverside willows. © National Portrait Gallery

A ‘clow’ was a flap-valve to stop flood-water rising back up the ditches at high tide. Leather was no doubt obtained from cattle stocked on the Ings. Nowadays such things are made of steel and rubber.

The 1850s and 1860s, especially after the Land Drainage Act of 1861, saw a steady increase in mopping-up operations. In the 1860s Longdon Marsh in Worcestershire and the Baggy Moor in Shropshire were tackled, as were marshes in the Trent and Tame valleys in Staffordshire. In the 1850s the ‘Bampton Polderland’ on the Thames just south of Kelmscott was drained by an entrepreneurial farmer, William Wood. This still lovely riverine landscape must have been settling down from its major reshaping when William Morris bought Kelmscott Manor in 1871. Morris was no stranger to the environmental impact of river works, as is shown by a confrontation recorded between him and the Thames Conservancy Board concerning riverside willows which they had felled near Hammersmith. Morris resolved to complain to the board, which was composed largely of retired seamen. Feeling increasingly nervous as his appointment drew near, Morris was ushered into a vast boardroom, where the door was flung open by ‘a giant of a man who looked as if he had been fed on rum all his life’:

‘What the hell do you bloody chaps want?’ he roared.

‘What is your bloody business?’

Morris’ shyness disappeared in a flash. ‘We’ve come to ask you savage bloody chaps why the hell you have cut down a pleasant grove of willows.’⁵⁰