In 1840, one man transformed travel in Britain.
His name was George Bradshaw
and his Railway Guides inspired the Victorians to take to the tracks.
Stop by stop, he told them where to travel,
what to see and where to stay.
Now, 170 years later, I'm making a series of journeys across the length
and breadth of the country to see what of Bradshaw's Britain remains.
My journey using my Bradshaw's guide continues through Suffolk and Essex.
Before the Industrial Revolution,
parts of these counties were pretty much isolated.
But the coming of the railway opened them up, not only to trade,
but also to that sort of Victorian tourist who was educated
and interested in discovering more of English history.
On today's step of the journey,
I'll be coming face-to-face with a medieval politician.
Oh, my goodness. That is grotesque.
Sharing the Victorians' fascination with the freakishly stout.
Bags you're on our team.
How many have we got?
And journeying overseas on one of the world's first electric railways.
This is a great thrill for me, cos I used to come here as a child.
I've never been in the cab before.
I began this trip on the East Coast
and now, I'm travelling south
through the counties of Suffolk and Essex.
In Bradshaw's day, this area was, for the first time,
being carved open by the railways,
allowing tourists and speculators to flood in.
Today's section begins in Sudbury and takes me south
through Witham and Chelmsford.
And then branches back to the coast at Southend-on-Sea.
With the arrival of the railway from the 1840s onwards,
Victorians with an interest in history could swarm on Sudbury.
My Bradshaw's guide says of Sudbury that it was,
"formerly a place of far greater importance than at present."
It also says, "St Gregory's Church was built by Simon de Sudbury,
"who was murdered here by Wat Tyler's mob
"and buried near a college, the gate of which still remains."
Now, that murder by Wat Tyler's mob interests me, personally, very much.
TANNOY: Can I have your attention, please?
We will shortly be arriving on time to Sudbury, where this train terminates.
The reason for the murder was politics.
And, in particular, the imposition of a tax
whose name may yet be inscribed on my tombstone.
In Bradshaw's time, awaydays on the train
to investigate rip-roaring yarns were extremely popular
and big business for the railways.
I'm meeting Canon Gregory John Webb at the church of St Gregory's
to hear the grisly truth of Simon de Sudbury's demise.
- Hello, Greg, how lovely to see you. - Good to meet you. Very warm welcome.
Why was Simon de Sudbury murdered by Wat Tyler's mob?
Well, at the time,
he was the Archbishop of Canterbury, but also the Lord Chancellor.
And it was not a good time to be Lord Chancellor
because they needed to raise some money,
and somebody came up with the wonderful idea of a poll tax.
This is not Margaret Thatcher's poll tax?
Definitely not Margaret Thatcher's poll tax.
She probably didn't learn from history.
- But Simon, he, sort of, introduced the poll tax. - In what year, then?
That would be 1381.
OK. And, from what I remember of poll taxes,
people don't like them too much.
No, it was particularly unpopular with the poor.
And so, a chap called Wat Tyler led what we now know as
the Peasants' Revolt in protest against the poll tax.
Now, according to Bradshaw then, um,
Simon de Sudbury was murdered here by Wat Tyler's mob.
Not quite right. No.
He was actually murdered in the Tower of London, in the White Tower,
where he was beheaded by the mob breaking into the Tower.
His body is buried in Canterbury, in the cathedral in Canterbury.
He is, of course, the Archbishop of Canterbury
and that's very appropriate.
But I have got something very interesting to show you here,
- in the church, if you'd like to come this way, Michael. - Hmm.
So, this is the vestry.
And this is what I want to show you.
Oh, my goodness. That is grotesque.
You're going to tell me that is Simon de Sudbury, are you?
That is Simon de Sudbury's head.
This gruesome relic drew Victorian railway tourists in droves.
And that head was placed on a spike on London Bridge back in 1381
and the folk of Sudbury rescued it...
- Ah. - ..and brought it back to Sudbury.
The grateful, fond folk of Sudbury brought it back.
'This is a rather unsettling confrontation.
'In the 1990s, I too was responsible for implementing a piece
'of misconceived poll tax legislation
'which brought a government to the brink of catastrophe.
'I feel sympathetic shiver down my spine as my eyes engage
'with poor Simon de Sudbury's empty sockets.'
What do we know about the circumstances of his decapitation?
By all accounts, it was particularly brutal.
And the story is that it may well have been seven blows
to decapitate him.
And, I understand, if you actually looked at the back of the skull,
you can still see some of the marks in the vertebrae that remain.
Which would seem to confirm that that was, indeed, the case.
- Extraordinary that it's survived so long. - It really is.
Another fascinating thing you might have noticed about the head, Michael,
- is that there are no teeth. - Hmm.
And, now, the story is that a verger, a couple of hundred years ago or so,
decided that it would be a good idea to sell the teeth.
And the story goes on that he sold hundreds of them.
So, poor Simon introduced the poll tax and lost his head.
I must say, as Minister of the poll tax, I very nearly lost mine.
- There's a lesson here. - There is.
- And we hope that politicians in the future will definitely learn it. - Hmm.
The Victorians loved this gory story
and came in their battalions to see Simon de Sudbury's head.
Before television deadened our sensibilities,
this site must have set the imagination racing.
Another popular haunt for the Victorians with Bradshaw's in hand
is my next destination, the town of Maldon in Essex.
This is Marks Tey, where I have to change trains.
The railways allowed Victorians to breathe fresh air,
glimpse the sea, study their past and improve their education.
Trains also allowed Victorians to be thrilled and titillated,
brightening up lives that, otherwise,
offered too few opportunities for merriment.
I'm on my way to Witham station to go to Maldon,
which my Bradshaw's tells me,
"carried on a great coasting and considerable trade."
But that wasn't the main attraction
for Victorian sensation-seeking sightseers.
TANNOY: This is Witham.
As Bradshaw puts it,
"Here, Mr Bright, the fat man of Maldon, lived and died.
"Aged only 28 years, but weighing 44 stone.
"And it is stated that seven men could be buttoned
"into his waistcoat."
Now, that does make Maldon worth a visit.
I'm meeting local historian Stephen Nunn outside Mr Bright's house.
- Stephen, hello. - Hello, Michael, nice to meet you. - And to meet you.
My Bradshaw's guide tells me about the fat man of Maldon, a Mr Bright.
- Who was he? - He was a local lad, Edward Bright.
He was born here in Maldon in 1721
and it was obvious, from an early age,
that he was going to be a big, big lad.
That's interesting.
He was the previous century to my Bradshaw's guide.
He was, actually, yes.
So, the Victorian railway tourist following his Bradshaw's guide,
comes here to find out about a man who died 100 years before,
Edward Bright. Extraordinary.
But he was famous. There were engravings of him.
He was a well-known character. They came here on the railway.
They came to look at his house.
They had a look at his tomb in All Saints' Church.
And he died in his bed in 1750.
The trouble is they had a problem trying to get him down
from his bedroom to take him to be buried.
So, they had to demolish parts of the staircase and parts of a wall
and then use a block and tackle and put him on a cart
and take him up to All Saints' Church.
There's one more twist in Edward Bright's tale.
Barely a month after his death,
a wager was laid in a local pub that so big was he,
seven men could squeeze themselves inside one of his waistcoats.
Hence, folklore and my Bradshaw's has it,
that seven fine fellows successfully accommodated themselves
within Edward Bright's ample garment.
Victorian tourists could still view the waistcoat on their tour.
Sadly, it's disappeared.
But I can still test the plausibility of the tale.
- This is an exact replica of Edward Bright's waistcoat. - Good Lord.
Shall we put this to the test? You want to get in there?
Anyone like to come in here?
We've got to try to get seven people in this waistcoat. Yeah, come on.
See if we can get seven inside. In you pop.
- There we go. - All right. - Bags you're on our team.
How many have we got?
- Seven. - Seven. - We've got seven. Right, let's try and close it up.
- Aaah. - Gosh. - Oooh.
- What do you think, Stephen? - I think we're just about there.
Just about there. Just about there.
Before I leave Maldon,
there's a piece of railway architecture
I've been told I mustn't miss.
This is Maldon East station, where I could have arrived
had it not been axed in the Beeching cuts of the 1960s.
Rather like my beheaded friend Simon de Sudbury,
the station has a cautionary political tale to tell.
This magnificent station owes a lot to a would-be politician
called David Waddington, who, anxious to get elected
to Parliament, built the station.
And, of course, the workmen were very likely to vote for him.
It's a great result and it must have cost a fortune.
I wonder whether it was worth it in the long term?
David, did no-one ever tell you?
All political careers end in tears.
It's a shame I can't hop on the train at Maldon East,
but I leave this sadly abandoned station to return to Witham,
to catch the train a few miles to Kelvedon,
where I'm spending the night.
For my night's rest, I have turned, as ever, to Bradshaw's.
"In the vicinity is Layer Marney, with the old brick gate.
"Property of Quintin Dick Esquire."
I'll stay overnight at this sumptuous Tudor tower
and manor house.
Built in 1520, during the reign of Henry VIII,
by Henry 1st Lord Marney.
- The owner is now Nick Charrington. - Good to see you. - Great to see you.
- Fantastic. - I'm amazed by the house.
I mean, it's like a Tudor skyscraper, isn't it?
And I think it is the tallest of all the Tudor Gatehouses,
and it's a sort of statement building.
Henry Marney letting everybody know that he's rich, he's powerful
and this is, you know, his, it reflects him, as it were.
- Come and have a look. - Thank you.
To help with the upkeep of the house,
Nick hosts all manner of events.
Including weddings, one of which is in full swing.
- Congratulations. - Thank you very much. - My name's Michael Portillo.
- Hello. - Well done. What a wonderful place to get married. - It's lovely.
- Yeah. - And what a day you've chosen! - We've had a wonderful day.
- It's been absolutely beautiful. - It's about to go wild with the dancing.
- Yes. - Yes. - Yes.
I believe that a Victorian owner of Layer Marney
was involved in an MP's expenses scandal, which has a modern ring.
My Bradshaw's tells me that Quintin Dick lived here. Who was he?
Well, he was the MP for Maldon, but his chief claim to fame, really,
is the sheer amount of money he spent buying his seat.
But he was one of the more crooked MPs.
I think he makes today's trouble look pretty minor.
In the first election which, actually, he lost,
he and his, well, the person he was standing against,
- between them spent over £30,000... - Amazing.
..on food, drink and a bit of travel to get everybody in.
And he then won two subsequent elections.
Again, 30,000 bought those two for him.
You haven't told me what party he was,
- but I fear I may be able to guess. - Conservative.
So, another salutary tale of a political miscreant
brings me to the end of a wonderful day.
Victorian railway travellers might have had cause
to shake their heads and tut.
But I feel the force of these stories more personally.
I retire amused, but also chastened by what I've learnt today.
On a new day, I'm still thinking
how much pleasure Victorian tourists gained when, for the first time,
they could travel the length and breadth of the country just for fun.
But a still bigger impact of a comprehensive railway
was the growth of industry and of towns.
As the concentrations of population increased,
so too did the demand for food production.
I'm now on my way to Chelmsford, which my Bradshaw's tells me
has a population of 5,513, very precisely.
"The town contains a Shire Hall and County Room
"with basement for Corn Exchange,
"in which it carries on a large trade."
Now, I've often heard of Corn Exchanges, but never thought much
about why they were buying and selling the cereals.
So, to find out more, what better to do than to visit a flour mill?
Chelmsford's surviving flour mill was established in 1824,
when windmills and watermills used the force of nature
to grind the grain.
But the Industrial Revolution harnessed steam power
to drive the milling stones. And, no longer dependent on
the whims of wind or water, flour production increased greatly.
Chelmer Mill flourished and is still producing today.
Hannah Marriage is the latest generation of the family
to join the company.
I love your Victorian building and I noticed, as I came in,
that it says you've been in business since 1824.
Yes, that's right.
- We've only actually been on this site since 1899. - Only.
Only. Yes. Well, it was founded by my great-great-great grandfather
- and his twin brother. - And why did you come here in 1899?
The land that we purchased was close to the railway line
so that we could have our own railway siding.
And the railway sidings then were, obviously,
to take your product away, I suppose?
Yeah, mainly in terms of bringing coal in,
because it was a steam-powered mill.
So, the coal could be transported far more effectively by rail
rather than by water.
But we also had flour going up to London by train.
Now, my Bradshaw's mentions the Corn Exchange in Chelmsford,
- did your family make use of that? - Yeah, they did.
My grandfather and his generation used to go down there
on a weekly basis.
It was the place where the farmers and millers
and merchants would all meet to buy and sell cereals.
I think it was quite a good place for them to go and have a catch up
and a chat and chew things over as well.
Now, although this is a very historic site,
I gather you're also, sort of, bang up-to-date.
Our mill's quite unique, actually,
we've got a real mix of the old-fashioned, like, we've got
100-year-old French burrstones to make the stoneground wholemeal flour.
Then we've got some really high-tech things.
We've got a computer system running the mill.
And we've got really whizzy machinery sorting the wheat by colour
and all sorts of other things.
So, it's quite an interesting mix.
- You're whetting my appetite. May we take a look? - Of course.
- Thank you. - Come this way.
Hannah's taking me into the workings of the mill, where I'm going to
attempt to make flour as Victorians did and then bake myself a loaf.
- What are these wooden cases? - These house our French burrstones.
- We've got a set of five of these in this room. - Burrstones?
Burrstone, yes, it's from a region in northern France.
The stones are what we use to mill
traditional stoneground wholemeal flour.
So, this is just like in the Bible?
- Two great big stones grinding. - Grinding together, yeah.
And you can see, behind you, Simon's actually dressing the stones.
When the business was founded,
all the grinding was done on stones such as these.
Just as in the 19th century, every couple of months,
the worn-down grooves have to be re-cut by an experienced miller.
With the ancient burrstones now powered by electricity, rather than
Victorian steam, I'm going to help Hannah to produce wholemeal flour.
So, the grain is going in the top, there,
going down through the stones.
- Yeah. - And where does it come out? - If you come round here.
- It's warm. - Yeah, freshly milled. - Lovely, though.
- Now, this is used for bread-making and so on? - Yeah, exactly.
The next stage is we take it to our baker for him to test it.
- Excellent. Take me to your bread baker. - Follow me.
Although the mills had become mechanised in Bradshaw's day,
bakeries still languished in the dark ages.
Awful places to work, with long hours and back-breaking toil.
Bread was still kneaded in huge troughs with hands and feet.
And workers suffered innumerable lung problems
from inhaling flour particles.
Thankfully, those days are gone and baker Kelvin Ellam is going to give
me a crash course in bread-making in a clean and safe environment.
So, Kelvin, rather ominously, you've put two bowls out here.
This looks like I'm going to have to do something.
- What's the technique, then? - Now for the messy part, unfortunately.
- OK, so, just run your fingers around. - Hmm-mm.
- So, this is called, what, kneading, is it? - Kneading, yes.
- So, the strong-arm stuff comes later, does it? - It does, yes.
Well, actually, it's going to come now. So...
Hmm, quite pleased with that. A clean bowl.
What you're doing is you're really working it now
so that you're developing all the glutens.
- Just like that? - Just like that. - Right, just like that.
And you should put quite a lot of effort into this, shouldn't you?
Give it quite a lot of power. How do you know when you've done enough?
It takes about ten minutes. You would really want to work it for
- eight to ten minutes. - Ten minutes?! - Yes.
- I'm enjoying this. - I thought you might.
Hmm, doesn't quite look as smooth as yours.
Just stick those bits in there, no-one will notice.
Finally, it's time to taste some handmade bread at its finest.
Don't they look magnificent?
- Mmm, that's delicious. It's so homely, isn't it? - Yeah.
I really KNEADED that.
I thoroughly enjoyed this slice of Victorian life.
But as I leave the mill, the heavens open.
Just as I'm about to embark on my last leg of today's journey
to the seaside.
The English summer.
So, I'm on my way to Southend-on-Sea, which,
according to my Bradshaw's, "has a pier a mile and a quarter long,
"which has been laid for the accommodation of passengers
"arriving by steamer."
Well, I remember this pier from my childhood holidays.
And what Bradshaw's doesn't mention is that it has a train!
The growth of the seaside resort began in the Railway Age,
as it made access cheaper and quicker.
This initially benefited only the middle classes.
But, by the late 19th century,
the bigger Victorian resorts, like Southend,
catered for the rapidly expanding working class holiday market.
The name of the station is Southend Victoria.
Which, of course, underlines how popular this was in Victorian times.
- Water coming through the roof a bit today, is it? - Absolutely.
Welcome to sunny Southend-on-Sea.
- It's a lovely station, congratulations. - It's beautiful.
There's a lot of really old Victorian structure here that's really nice.
- Do you ever have time to stand and admire it? - Nightshift, mostly. - Yeah?
Time to walk around when it's nice and quiet,
and feel all the ghosts, you know?
Southend has been a holiday destination since the 18th century
and no self-respecting resort could grow up without a pier.
Amazingly, at nearly one-and-a-half miles in length,
Southend has the longest pleasure pier in the world.
Complete with its own railway.
Now, this is a very special moment for me, because I remember
the excitement I felt travelling on this train when I was a child.
The rolling stock was different then.
I remember that it was green and cream.
And, for some reason, I remember the noise.
It used to go da-dum da-dum da-dum.
And the excitement of travelling on the world's longest pier.
My driver today is Ian Peel.
- Hello. - Hello, Michael. - I've come to join you.
TRAIN HOOTS
This is a great thrill for me, cos I used to come here as a child.
I've never been in the cab before.
But it just is a very special pier and a very special railway,
- isn't it? - It certainly is, yes.
Lots of people come here to walk along the pier
and to ride along the pier.
There's an obvious reason why Southend has such a long pier.
At low tide, the deep sea is over a mile from the beach.
Large boats couldn't disgorge their hordes of Victorian tourists.
And Margate, across the estuary, was pulling in the visitors.
Local dignitaries took action and, by 1848, a wooden structure
of 7,000 feet was already the longest pier in Europe.
By the end of the 19th century, a new cast-iron pier,
essentially the one we see today, had been constructed,
and one of the world's first electric railways opened in 1890.
This noise, I kind of remember. The da-duh, da-duh.
Why does it make that noise?
It's because we're going over rails that are joined with fishplates
- and there's a gap between each one. - Ah.
On modern trains, the railways, you'll find, they're all welded
and that's why you don't get that noise.
But, uniquely, on here, we get that da-duh, da-duh, da-duh all the time.
How long does it take us to do the trip normally?
Normally about eight to ten minutes.
We're coming up, as you can see,
to what we call the loop, which is the passing place.
Southend Pier has, against the odds, survived arson,
electrical fires and even boats ramming its structure.
So many seaside towns have lost their piers, it's such a shame.
They've been burnt down or they've been abandoned.
But this one, I mean, the big daddy of them all, it goes on, doesn't it?
It certainly does. People love it. People love to walk up and down here.
And the Victorians, of course, were going to the end of the pier
to get their steamers to go on their pleasure cruises.
And, even those who couldn't afford the steamers,
they would have been walking out here.
They would have had the sensation of being at sea,
- even if they couldn't afford to go to sea. - That's exactly it, yes.
We used to come as day trippers as kids.
And, of course, if you got the tide wrong, you had to walk just,
well, you know, getting on for a mile just to get a bathe in the sea.
Yup, yeah.
I mean, today, we've had two boats in that have taken day trippers off.
- Have you? - Yes, yes. - Oh, I didn't know you still have boats.
That's great.
This pier is charming, even in the rain.
I mean, look at the lovely reflections and look at the light.
I'm going to take a wander.
The Victorians loved to promenade on piers.
And, you can imagine, even on a damp day like today,
people parading, wanting to see and to be seen dressed in their finest.
In a fairground setting of Punch and Judy shows, whelk stands
and ice-cream carts jostling for trade,
it must have been a glorious sight.
Coming to Southend has made me nostalgic,
not only for my own childhood, but also for Bradshaw's times.
Because the Victorians invented the seaside holiday
and bequeathed it to us.
And another part of their legacy is this magnificent pier.
When I continue my journey, I'll be finding out
how dairy herds travelled the length and breadth of Britain first class.
The cow also decided to urinate on me, but that's all right.
Discovering the secret location that armed Britain's empire-building.
- That is the sound of black powder in the 19th century. - Brilliant noise.
From the Crimea to the Indian Mutiny.
And hearing of a heinous crime
that shook Victorian's faith in railway travel.
What they discovered on Hackney Station was
an empty, first-class carriage absolutely besmeared with blood.
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