Last week, I came across an intriguing story from Alton, a quaint town in Hampshire. The residents there have devised an unusual argument against development: Jane Austen used to stroll through this area from nearby Chawton. Their petition suggests that this landscape forms a crucial piece of our literary heritage and should remain untouched.
At first glance, it seems like a classic case of nimbyism, where people go to great lengths to oppose local construction. Who wants the chaos of more noise, increased traffic, and a ruined vista? Voicing these concerns often leaves one painted as the bad guy because, as some rightly argue, Britain is in dire need of new homes, and they have to go up somewhere.
Alton’s argument does appear somewhat tenuous in this context. Just because Austen’s brother, Henry, was a partner in a local bank or that the town was home to her surgeon apothecary doesn’t necessarily warrant protection from Historic England. If it did, we could put a halt to new housing in most of Sussex due to Pride and Prejudice’s roots, Gloucestershire for Laurie Lee’s influence, or even much of Wales, thanks to Dylan Thomas’ works.
But another narrative emerges here. Currently, there exists a stark disparity in how we protect heritage. Buildings and artifacts receive robust safeguarding, while culturally significant landscapes, trees, and rivers are left relatively unprotected. Why is this?
The Woodland Trust is questioning this imbalance. They’ve initiated a campaign seeking heritage protection for historic trees, akin to the safeguarding of old buildings. Among the notable trees is the Kilbroney Oak, standing for 300 years in a landscape that allegedly sparked inspiration for CS Lewis’s Narnia. There’s also the Major Oak, intertwined with the tales of Robin Hood and believed to be 800 to 1,000 years old. But currently, trees are protected by weak preservation orders, which can be overridden by planning permissions and other regulations.
Interestingly, the only listed tree in Britain is a long-deceased one—the stump of the Elfin Oak in London’s Kensington Gardens.
There’s a growing movement using literary heritage to protect areas. Just last month, villagers protested against a housing development in Blackmore Vale, Dorset, where Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles is set. People like barrister Paul Powlesland advocate for the listing of natural phenomena, similar to buildings or ancient monuments. He poses a thought-provoking scenario: two oak saplings rooted in 1502, one cut down to build a house and one allowed to grow. The oak wood in the house is protected due to its age, whereas the 500-year-old living tree remains unprotected, its future unsecured.
Alton’s plea may seem exaggerated, but it’s worth comparing to the fuss made over even the most trivial Austen artifacts. Everyday letters to friends, bits of paper with her signature, and portraits barely confirmed to be her likeness are guarded by elaborate security and rich trusts, fetching hundreds of thousands. Archaeologists examine remains from Austen’s childhood home to glean insights into her daily life. We revere anything affiliated with literary figures; why not preserve the landscapes that inspired them too?
The essence of British identity is woven into its rural scenery, though politicians often overlook this profound connection when promoting patriotic ideals. In “Storied Ground,” Paul Readman argues that the landscape’s patriotic influence and its role in ancestral legacy have been overlooked by historians for too long. Phrases like “Thackeray-Land,” “Wordsworthshire,” and “Brontë Country” neatly encapsulate the cultural significance attached to these locales.
Yet, using cultural associations as a basis for conserving nature has its pitfalls. We shouldn’t freeze landscapes in the state they were when a famous figure wrote about them. Consider the Lake District’s World Heritage status by UNESCO: a landscape marked by deforestation and over-grazing, now labeled a “cultural landscape” that arguably needs more trees and fewer sheep.
Despite these complexities, Britain’s natural landscapes need the support. The UK has been labeled one of the planet’s most nature-depleted countries. We excel at protecting human-made structures, yet Historic England’s rigid protections for 500,000 buildings sometimes cause headaches for their caretakers who must maintain outdated and inefficient features. Couldn’t we extend some of that fervor toward preserving our natural heritage too?
And let’s face it, our green spaces could definitely use a bit of extra help.
