Newsletter 44 - Autumn 2005

W G Hoskins:  A Brief Personal Recollection and Appreciation

George Campbell

It is exactly fifty years since I began to turn the pages of my new copy of ‘The Making of the English Landscape’, (first published August 1955), with that rare sense of anticipation and excitement that accompanies an important new discovery.  Hoskins states that he often felt that the landscape was trying to speak to him, but it was in a language that he did not understand.  Here, in my hands was his pioneer translation, written with a deep understanding and warm appreciation of the landscape features of whichever historical period he was exploring.  His enthusiasm for the English landscape was undisguised and infectious; it was easily caught.  I felt exhilarated, like Keats’ ‘stout Cortez’, when he first saw the Pacific from a peak in Darien, which recalls how uplifted he, Keats, felt when he first looked into Chapman’s translation of Homer.  (Those of you who like me had to learn poetry by heart at school will recall this examiner’s favourite!)

For me this book represented a new departure in our interpretation of the English landscape; a new and refreshing perspective; and I longed to get out into the countryside and test the detail.  Alas, like stout Cortez I was an exile; at that time living in Scotland.  So it was only after several years of utilising much of the material in his book in my teaching there, that I finally caught up with him and the English landscape in Oxford.  There he was well established and well liked as Reader in Economic History, holding regular seminars which I attended, as well as his several series of popular University Extra-mural lectures in Wellington Square. Every one of his presentations was well researched and delivered with the same transparent delight in his subject as was evident in his book, though with more good humour.  It was evident, however, that he was also deeply upset by ugly, neglected or despoiled landscapes.  His pet hates were: the motor car, developers and wars.  Occasionally, at question time, I crossed swords with him on minor points, in the way that self-important young men do.  But he always dealt with me with patience and good nature.  Over the years we got on well together.

Shortly after I left Oxford for a post in Warwickshire I was pleasantly surprised to learn that he was returning to Leicester.  I re-established contact, also intending to entice him over the Watlng Street to give our local history group a lecture or two.  So one evening my wife and I drove over to see him, and received the usual warm welcome.  Before we left he raised the question of where and when he should come.  I was then living in Nuneaton, which at that time was not a pretty sight, being almost submerged in the debris of Victorian industry: disused coalmines and slag heaps, old quarries, abandoned brickyards and the rest; a landscape about which I knew he held strong reservations.  I suspect he thought I was going to invite him to somewhere more aesthetically pleasing, such as Warwick or Leamington Spa.  But when I replied ‘Nuneaton’, his face fell, almost as if he had suffered a blow; such was the shock of the thought of visiting Nuneaton.  When he had recovered his composure the best he could manage was ‘Well I’ll have to think about it.’  Subsequent persuasions were fruitless; he never came. It was not the end of our friendship; and my affection and admiration for him remained undiminished.

The ugly face of our landscape was something he always tried to avoid.  But this blackspot was also his blindspot; he found it difficult to see beyond it.  Nevertheless, whatever minor blindspots he may have had, he laid the first strong and secure foundations of our understanding and appreciation of the English landscape through his celebrated book, now its umpteenth printing.  Like a host of others, I shall always be deeply indebted to him for this.

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