The Time Traveller’s Guide to Restoration Britain

by Ian Mortimer

  Four dishes of meat, viz. four excellent hens and a piece of pork boiled in a dish; a leg of mutton and turnips; a piece of beef of eight ribs, well-seasoned and roasted; and a couple of very fat geese; last of all, a very great Cheshire cheese – a rare feast [even when on] shore. His liquors were answerable: canary, sherry, Rhenish, claret, white wine, cider, ale – all of the best sort – and punch [as plentiful as] ditch water.100

  Ultimately it will be the smell, the ‘pestilential funk’, that will be your lasting memory of travelling on a Restoration ship, not the size of the cabin or the food. The only way of airing the lower decks of a ship is to leave open the gun ports, but this cannot be done in rough seas and, even when the water is calm, it is inadequate. The stink tends to rise from the very bottom of the vessel. Algae, fungi and bacteria cover the surfaces of whatever solids are in the dark salt-water soup down there. Every so often all the rocks and old pieces of iron used as ballast have to be taken out and left on the shore to be rinsed by the waves, while the bilge is washed down with vinegar.101 Needless to say, ‘every so often’ is not often enough. The smell is not helped by the rotting food in the hold, the steam and smoke of the galley, the cooking smells, the vomit, and the excrement either dropped directly into a dark corner by its producer or thrown into the bilge by a servant who can’t be bothered to go up on deck to empty an officer’s chamber pot.

  On the question of sanitation, the captain has his own outdoor seat of easement – a wooden seat with a hole in it, emptying directly into the sea – on the quarter gallery, a narrow private balcony at the back of the ship, just outside his cabin. For the ordinary sailor, relief from the call of nature is to be had at one of the pissdales on deck – a urinal attached to a lead pipe – or the ‘heads’, at the bow of the ship.102 These days not only is the bow blessed with timber grating, but there are a couple of seats of easement there for you to use, one facing the other, each with their back to the timber wall of the bow. On the plus side, the rising and falling of the ship mean that this area is regularly washed with water from the spray and waves. The downside is that you are unlikely to spend any length of time here reading a book.

  As you lie in your hammock in the dark below deck, swaying with the heaving of the ship and the stink of the bilge ever in your nostrils, you might reflect that you’ve come a long way since lying on that feather bed in London. There was almost complete silence in your room in the capital, except for the slow tick of the longcase clock and the chambermaid making her way up the stairs, and you wondered what tomorrow would bring. Now you are listening to the creaking of the ship’s timbers, the distant waves and the nearby squeaking of rats scampering across the boards beneath you. And you may still be wondering what tomorrow will hold. Somewhere out there on this dark sea are the pirates you have heard so much about – Sir Henry Morgan, the conqueror of Panama; and Henry Every, the man who captures the richest prize ever taken by a pirate (and is never caught). More worrying still are the numerous Barbary corsairs, who sail the Mediterranean and Atlantic waters and even enter the English Channel, looking for boys like Joseph Pitts to sell in the slave markets of North Africa. Who knows, they may have already sighted your ship on the horizon and be waiting to attack at dawn.

  As the vessel rides another wave and sinks down into yet another trough, and the hammocks all sway and creak on their ropes in the dark fug, you might think of your fellow seafarers. The dream of travelling the world has become a reality for many men – from Edward Barlow spending his life at sea, seeing strange animals in the most exotic locations, to William Dampier navigating his way around the world three times, to describe the flora and fauna of faraway places. You could say that, by 1700, we have come to terms with the world. So as you lie there and reflect, it might strike you as ironic to realise that the next revolution in travel will take place back onshore, in England.

  If you sail to the River Tyne, put ashore near Newcastle and take a barge upstream, you will see some wooden rails near the riverbank.

  Every so often you will see a horse arrive, pulling a train of wagons along those rails. Those wagons are full of coal – each train contains four or five chaldrons (about 10½–13 tons). You will not believe a single horse could draw so much weight. Coal merchants here can clearly see how easy it is to convey huge loads on wheels set on rails.

  It is a wonderful moment in time. People are only just becoming aware of their ability to change the world.

  8

  Where to Stay

  The practicalities of finding accommodation vary from age to age. One of the problems of the Restoration period is the sheer number of people on the road. You might be planning to stay at a favourite inn, only to find on arrival that you have just been beaten to it by a stagecoach from London, so the best rooms have all gone. Another issue arises from the practice of tipping. In the modern world, we think of a tip as a small reward in return for a particular service; in the seventeenth century, it has much more to do with the status of the giver than the service rendered. If you want to be treated as a gentleman, you will pass a sixpence or a shilling to almost every deserving person of lower status that you meet. You will tip the servants in your host’s house as readily as those at an inn. You will give money to the poor and to beggars on the highways, to people who help you with directions and to the washerwoman who comes to clean your clothes. The readiness with which you distribute silver is an important indicator of your largesse, and in many places that will have a bearing on where you may stay overnight.

  Inns

  There are ways to secure the best room in an inn, even if it doesn’t have a vacancy. If you turn up late one night and give the impression that you are a wealthy gentleman, then the landlord will find room for you, even if it means waking up someone who is already asleep and asking him to vacate the bed. In June 1668, Mr and Mrs Pepys and their two servants are travelling in rural Wiltshire (having just been to see Stonehenge) when they come to a small inn at 10 p.m. There is a pedlar asleep in the best bedroom. Not for long, though. Soon Samuel and his wife are enjoying the warm space he has vacated, with their servants Will and Betty in a truckle bed in the same room. You can see why the landlord has been so helpful when you look at the bill: Pepys pays 9s 6d for his accommodation, including stabling and fodder for their horses. The pedlar would have paid only a quarter of that.1

  You will recognise an inn by its sign: all inns and taverns are required by law to have an identifying emblem clearly displayed.2 For the most part, these are exactly what you would expect: painted wooden boards swinging on an iron bracket above the front of the building, just as in the modern day. They creak in the wind, in true ‘Highwayman’ style. Look carefully, however, and you’ll see the signs are undergoing a revolution. A hundred years ago they all had simple images, such as the King’s Head, the Red Lion, the White Hart, the Crown, the Mitre, the Grosvenor Arms, and so on. The only compound names you’d ever come across would be religious or heraldic symbols, such as the Eagle and Child, the Bear and Ragged Staff and the Rose and Crown. Nowadays it seems every new inn is called by a juxtaposition of two nouns, such as the Crown and Anchor or the Fox and Hounds. There is a trend for bizarre combinations: the Razor and Hen, the Magpie and Crown, the Leg and Seven Stars, the Whale and Crow, and the Shovel and Boat.3 Marketing is the reason for the change. Innkeepers want a distinctive name that stagecoach users and operators will remember. The proprietors who name their premises like this are also giving a signal to prospective customers that their premises are up to date and equipped with all the latest conveniences (such as chamber pots).

  Another new way of drawing in guests is the construction of a strikingly elaborate inn sign. The White Hart at Scole, Norfolk, is the benchmark here: its sign is probably the most elaborate ever constructed in England. Built in 1655 by James Peck, a Norwich merchant, it crosses the whole highway and is covered with dozens of the most ornate carvings. It shows biblical scenes, such as Jonah coming out of the whale’s mouth; angels, shepher
ds and figures from classical mythology, including Bacchus and Cerberus; Prudence, Fortitude, Old Father Time and the coats of arms of many hoped-for patrons. The inn itself isn’t bad, either. It looks handsome from the outside – new red brick, with fashionable Dutch gables – and the rooms are very comfortable. Thomas Baskerville visits in 1681 and speaks well of its ale and beer.4 As a result, this becomes one of the most famous hostelries in the country. Other methods of attracting high-status customers’ attention include providing entertainments such as a cockpit and a bowling green, and advertising the fact that royal visitors have stayed there. If you take a coach to Guildford, no doubt you will want to book in at the Red Lion and pay extra to stay in the room once occupied by Charles II. At the Swan in Market Harborough you can sleep in the same bed in which Charles I once spent the night.5

  Some town inns are substantial premises. The Red Lion in Guildford, for example, has more than fifty rooms. A few in London are even larger, especially the coaching inns outside the gates and those in the centre that were rebuilt after the Great Fire. The largest inn in Lincoln, the Angel, has twenty letting chambers. These are not numbered, but are named after heraldic symbols: ‘the Hart’, ‘the Angel’, ‘the Crown’, ‘the Bell’, and so forth – thereby allowing illiterate travellers to identify their room. Furnishings in the Angel’s chambers range hugely. The most sparsely furnished is the Green Room, which has just a four-poster bedstead with curtains and valance around it, and a feather bed(i.e. a feather-filled mattress) within the bedstead and a bolster. The most lavish is the Little Cross Room, which has a better-quality four-poster bed with hangings and all the usual accessories, plus a set of cane chairs, a table and a looking glass. In both rooms, a basin and ewer of water will be provided when you turn up so that you can wash your face and hands. Note that not all rooms are for sleeping in: the Great Cross chamber is arranged for meetings with twenty-two chairs of Turkey work (chairs upholstered with embroidered cloth) arranged around four tables.6

  The majority of rooms in an inn have several beds in them. A fine one in a large Bristol inn has seven: two bedsteads with feather beds, a flock-filled bed and bedstead, two more nondescript beds and two truckle beds for servants. This isn’t a dormitory – it’s a high-status room, as you can see from the fact it also contains six Turkey-work chairs, seven ‘plush chairs’ (upholstered with a soft rich fabric, such as silk or cotton with a long, soft nap), two looking glasses, a cypress-wood cupboard and side cupboard and a table with a carpet across it.7 Obviously the room is often shared by various users, not all of whom are necessarily acquainted. This is something you’ll need to get used to. You may even have members of the opposite sex staying in the same room. In 1660 Pepys goes to lie down at his inn and finds the next bed occupied by an attractive woman. Being Pepys, he naturally thinks of making love to her and goes so far as to kiss her hand, but does not actually try his luck.8 It is not unknown for foreign gentlemen travelling in England to go to their bedchambers only to find a woman disrobing.9 Not everyone is happy with this state of affairs: Celia Fiennes, for one, is concerned that in some places ladies have to share a room with strangers. Have to share, you might ask: surely you can refuse? In some inns, the beds are nominally free and the costs are included in the prices of food and stabling. But that means you cannot complain that someone else is lodged in your room, if you have not paid for it. This way the landlord can cram even more people into his inn, night after night, and make more profit than if he were to charge for the room.10

  You will also be expected to share beds. If you stay at the English Champion in Ware, Hertfordshire, you can sleep in the famous Great Bed of that town, which is 10ft 9 inches square and 7ft 6 inches high and sleeps twelve people. (Chances are that it’s the person in the middle who has to get up in the middle of the night.) Samuel Pepys and Dr Clerke think nothing of sharing a bed when they stay at an inn together in April 1662.11 Sometimes servants share a bed with their master or mistress. Pepys has been known to sleep in a truckle bed at an inn and let his maidservant share the main bed with his wife (although, unsurprisingly, his wife never allows him to share the bed with their maid).

  Foreign travellers praise English inns highly for their accommodation and victuals; however, these tend to be better-off travellers staying at the best establishments. As they travel in groups and with servants, they rarely have to share a room. They also avoid some of the other problems that ordinary travellers face at an inn. Being woken by your roommates getting up at dawn can be tiresome – especially if you are sharing a bed with them. Then there’s the snoring, and having to listen to other people use the chamber pot in the night. You may find the prospect of being the second person in the night to use the said article a trifle unpleasant, especially if the first one’s aim was not so good. There’s only one thing worse – waking up in the middle of the night and putting your foot in the said chamber pot and tipping it over. I suspect such inconveniences will outweigh even the discomfort of the fleas. These are everywhere, and so common that people tend to find their biting amusing, especially when they bite other people. When Pepys shares a bed with Dr Clerke, he is delighted to learn in the morning that the fleas attacked Dr Clerke in the night and not him.12

  Stately Homes and Country Houses

  The wealthy people of Britain live in a wide range of dwellings, from medieval castles to Tudor mansions and up-to-date stately homes. Even at the end of the century, older structures outnumber those built since 1660, and owners show great imagination in adapting and updating their ancestral piles. Having said that, I imagine it is the new architecture you most want to see. And well you might, for the Restoration period sees some of the finest country houses ever built in Britain.

  The chances are that you will not have heard of the architects of the places where you might stay. The most famous architect, Sir Christopher Wren, only designs one or two private residences: his time is rather taken up with churches, monuments and St Paul’s Cathedral; public buildings in London, Oxford and Cambridge; and palatial wings for the royal family’s residences at Kensington Palace and Hampton Court. Wren’s assistant, the ubiquitous Robert Hooke, is probably the second most famous name – but his fame rests largely on his scientific work for the Royal Society. His architecture, like Wren’s, is predominantly of a public nature, although he does design some fine houses, including Ragley Hall in Warwickshire, Ramsbury Manor in Wiltshire and Montagu House in London. The two most famous English baroque architects, John Vanbrugh and Nicholas Hawksmoor, only start designing stately homes at the very end of our period. However, if you have never heard of Hugh May, Roger Pratt and William Talman, then you are in for a treat.

  Hugh May is the architect of Eltham Lodge, built in 1663–4. This is a ‘double-pile’ house – an arrangement developed by Inigo Jones earlier in the century. It consists of a simple two-storey rectangular block with a central corridor running the length of the building on both floors, with rooms on either side – thus a ‘double-pile’ because it has a ‘pile’ of rooms at the front and another at the back. Like Inigo Jones’s houses on the Covent Garden piazza, Eltham Hall makes use of brick and pilasters. It is quite modest, with only seven windows on each floor at the front. However, its appearance is so pleasing that it attracts many others who want something similar on a grander scale. Lord Clarendon commissions May to design him a house at Cornbury, Oxfordshire, but with a front elevation eleven windows wide. After that, May designs Berkeley House, the most westerly of the stately structures on the north side of Piccadilly. This has colonnades connecting the main building to service wings on the street, thereby creating an impressive quadrangle. By 1666 May’s star has risen sufficiently for him to be appointed one of three Commissioners for rebuilding the city after the Great Fire of London (the others being Roger Pratt and Christopher Wren). Important private commissions follow in the 1670s – at Cassiobury Park, Hertfordshire, and Windsor Castle.

  May’s fellow Commissioner in 1666, Roger Pratt, begins his architec
tural career almost accidentally when his cousin, Sir George Pratt, asks him to design a new stately home for him at Coleshill. Undeterred by his lack of training and experience, he sets about the task with care and enthusiasm – and a conversation with Inigo Jones. Like May, his starting point is the ‘double-pile’ house. At Coleshill you enter directly into a splendid double-height hallway with a grand pair of staircases. This provides a centre around which the rest of the living space is laid out; all the servants’ quarters are in the attic or in the basement. But that description does not do justice to the elegance of the structure. It is astonishing – both grand and beautiful – and everyone says so. Flushed with this success, Pratt goes on to design three more great houses: the graceful Kingston Lacy in Dorset; the slightly more imposing Horseheath Hall in Cambridgeshire; and the astonishing Clarendon House on Piccadilly (next door to Berkeley House). This last building is described by John Evelyn as ‘without hyperbole, the best contrived, the most useful, graceful and magnificent house in England’.13 Unfortunately, it is also one of the shortest-lived: it is bought by the duke of Albemarle and demolished for its materials in 1683. But it inspires other fine houses of all shapes and sizes – everything from the magnificent Belton House in Lincolnshire to the more modest Groombridge Place in Kent and the exquisite little jewel of the Old House in Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire.