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A Short History of the Area

St. James’s Park is the oldest of London’s five royal parks. It takes its name from St. James the Less, a medieval hospital for lepers once located where St. James’s Palace is today. When King Henry VIII (1491–1547; reigned from 1509) confiscated the hospital for a hunting lodge, he enclosed the adjoining 91-acre (37-hectare) fields for his two favourite manly pastimes: hunting deer and jousting in armour.

The Stuart kings that followed the Tudors were a less macho bunch and altered St. James’s field for more genteel pursuits. King James I (1566–1625; reigned from 1603), for example, added a menagerie that included exotic birds, crocodiles, and a wild elephant tamed with a gallon of wine every day.[1] Tennis courts, a medicinal herb garden, and an alley for an Italian game called palla a maglio or Pell-mell soon followed. It was around this time that the park first opened to the public.

Two major alterations changed the park’s look and feel dramatically. The first was by King Charles II (1630–85; reigned from 1660) who acquired a courtly taste for French gardens during his exile in France. Upon his return to London, he hired the Frenchman André Le Nôtre (1613–1700) to recreate his famous gardens of Versailles with neat rows of trees, manicured shrubs, and a central canal.

The second major change occurred when a more romantic style of gardens came into vogue in the time of King George IV (1762–1830; reigned from 1820). John Nash (1752–1835), a Regency architect and renowned dandy behind many of London’s best-known streetscapes, redesigned the park to more like we see today: winding paths, unexpected vistas, and a fairy-tale lake that could be right out of a Black Forest fable.

But if St. James’s Park was the beautiful princess, nearby Green Park was the homely half-sister. Rustic, plain, and oddly shaped, it was neither popular nor much admired. For good reason: legend says the park was once the burial ground for the lepers of St. James’s Hospital, which may explain why it has remained largely untouched in marked contrast to its Cinderella-like sibling.

Close to palaces and Parliament, both parks have always been popular with diplomats and politicians. In the 1700s, however, the parks attracted an even shadier crowd. Green Park was notorious for highwaymen and St. James’s for the sex trade. Although the gates to St. James’s were locked at 10 p.m., keys could be had for two a penny. “At night, I strolled into the park and took the first whore I met,” wrote the diarist and man-about-town James Boswell (1740–95). “She was ugly and lean and her breath smelled of spirits.”[2]

The Walk

Although this walk takes us through two of London’s most charming parks, our starting point is a little less so. Hyde Park Corner is a combination Underground Station, traffic roundabout, and pedestrian maze. Look for Exit 2 when making your way up to street level. A tunnel with murals that recall the Battle of Waterloo (1815) brings us to a park-like green. The impressive assortment of memorials here tells us we’ve arrived in a once-imperial city.

Look north across Piccadilly to the colonnaded house of light-brown stone. This is Apsley House, or “Number One, London” as it was sometimes known. Its address is fitting enough to begin any walking tour of London — even more so a Canadian one.

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington. After the War of 1812 he wanted a permanent way to defend British North America from the United States. He called the sprawling territory “all frontier and nothing else.”

Robert Adam, a neoclassical architect, built the house in 1771–78 for Henry Bathurst (1714–94), Lord Apsley, whose son would later become secretary for the colonies and lend his name to a city in New Brunswick and a streetcar route in Toronto. Although the address is actually 149 Piccadilly, Apsley House acquired the name Number One, London, owing to the fact it was the first house along a toll road into the city. Once part of a row of Georgian monster homes, this grand old dame now stands in splendid isolation on this busy corner of Hyde Park.

Trivia: Begun in 1826, the Rideau Canal was designed to allow British troops to bypass the St. Lawrence River, which was vulnerable to U.S. attack. The canal took five years to build, incorporated forty-six locks, and cost the lives of some 500 (mostly Irish) men.

Of interest to us is the third owner of Apsley House, Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley (1769–1852), 1st Duke of Wellington.

Wellington was a British military commander, administrator, diplomat, and prime minister (twice). He was also a dogmatic Tory who earned the nickname Iron Duke not for his steadfast conservatism, which he had in spades, but for securing Apsley House with iron shutters in the 1830s to shield it from protesters demanding the vote. The duke was many things, but not a democrat.

Wellington is best known for leading a military coalition which defeated the French dictator Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821) at the Battle of Waterloo in Belgium. But the British commander left his military mark in Canada as well.

During the War of 1812 (1812–14) between Britain and the United States, Wellington bolstered Canada’s defences by sending 15,000 troops to Canada. After the war, he ordered the construction of military structures that survive to this day. One of these is the Rideau Canal, a man-made waterway between Lake Ontario and the Ottawa River snaking 124 miles (202 kilometres) through mosquito-infested swamps. The remarkable owner of Apsley House is our first discovery for Canadian visitors to London.

Apsley House: Wellington to the Rescue

The War of 1812 convinced the Duke of Wellington that Canada wouldn’t survive another conflict with the United States. Canada simply lacked the resources of its bigger neighbour across a long, indefensible border. The duke called the sprawling territory “all frontier and nothing else.”[3]

With Napoleon exiled and Europe once more at peace, Wellington turned his considerable talents to the permanent defence of Canada. With his good friend Charles Lennox (1764–1819), 4th Duke of Richmond and governor general of Canada, he hatched an elaborate plan to build or improve a series of military forts that stretched across the territory’s eastern flank. These included the Halifax and Quebec citadels as well as Fort Lennox near Montreal, named in honour of Richmond after he was bitten by a pet fox in Canada and died horribly from rabies. The Rideau Canal to move troops more easily through the wooded landscape was the cornerstone of the plan. Without Wellington’s support, it would never have been built. His influence and political sleight of hand helped ram through Parliament the costliest project in the whole British Empire.

Fortunately for Canadians, Wellington’s defensive system was never needed: the War of 1812 was the last war fought on Canadian soil. Far from serving any military purpose, the canal proved infinitely more valuable for recreational boating in summer and as the world’s largest skating rink in winter. So tip your toques to the duke — and the poor British taxpayers who footed the bill — the next time you skate the Rideau Canal with a Beavertail pastry in hand.

Today, Apsley House is home to the Wellington Museum, which displays the duke’s extensive collection of paintings, porcelains, and other artifacts from his eventful life and career. If you visit the museum, descend back into the pedestrian underpass and look for Exit 1. Consider purchasing a combined ticket at the museum that also gives you access to Constitution Arch (1827–28). It’s a place from which you can get a wonderful treetop view of the parks we’ll visit — and a peek into the queen’s backyard in nearby Buckingham Palace if you are inclined to be nosey.

Before we set off, we should say a word or two about the assortment of imperial-looking monuments on the green. The equestrian statue immediately in front of Apsley House is by J.E. Boehm (1888). It is of the duke himself, in bronze rather than iron, bestride Copenhagen, the horse on which he rode into battle. Wellington is the only non-royal to have two equestrian statues in London; the other is in front of the Royal Exchange in the city’s financial district.

Trivia: In 1815, during a ball hosted by the duke and duchess of Richmond in Brussels, Wellington learned Napoleon’s army was nearby. “Napoleon has humbugged me, by Gad!” he said to his friend. “I must fight him here,” and pointed to a place on a map called Waterloo.[4]

To its right is the Memorial to the Machine Gun Corps by Francis Wood depicting a naked David holding Goliath’s sword. It is the smaller of two nude bronzes in the area (the other being of Achilles in Hyde Park). Locals say when Queen Mary first saw this monument in 1925, she remarked: “I thought it might have been larger.” To which a nearby wit quickly replied: “It’s just the cold, ma’am.”

The most spectacular monument on the green, hot or cold, is undoubtedly the just-noted Constitution Arch, also known as Wellington Arch, designed by the Victorian architect Decimus Burton (1800–81). In recent years, two other monuments have graced the green. These are the Australian War Memorial (2003) by Peter Tonkin and the New Zealand War Memorial (2006) by John Hardwick-Smith and Paul Dibble. The first consists of a wall of Australian green granite that curves around the southwest corner of the green and is etched with names of towns and villages in Australia that sent men and women to two world wars. The other comprises sixteen bronze timbers set into the grass, each bearing Maori symbols and sayings such as: “We are the hull of a great canoe.” Both illuminate the great human cost of war and are dramatic and moving in their simplicity.

Now, let’s make our way through Constitution Arch to Green Park, keeping in mind the cars and what the elderly but still proud duke said here after a Good Samaritan once helped him across the busy street: “I do believe that if it weren’t for me, that fellow would have been run over.” Today, we have the benefit of traffic lights.

Entering at the wedge tip of Green Park, let’s make our way along the gravel pathway that follows Constitution Hill. At the entrance we pass the Memorial Gates (2002), four pillars of Portland stone commemorating the nearly five million men and women from Africa, India, and the Caribbean who fought alongside Britain in two world wars. Beyond this and to our left is the Bomber Command Memorial. Continue under the stately sycamore trees. It is not long before we see a low, red-granite shape emerging indistinctly from behind them on our left. With a respectful nod to the English war poet Rupert Brooke (1887–1915), we now find ourselves in “some corner of a foreign field” that will be forever Canada.

The Canada Memorial: A Splash in the Park

Designed by Montreal sculptor Pierre Granche (1948–97), the Canada Memorial is a water fountain shaped like a truncated pyramid honouring the Canadian men and women in two world wars. Unlike other war memorials, this one commemorates participation rather than sacrifice. It was unveiled by the queen in 1994 and is the only Canadian war memorial in Britain.

As water flows gently over the fountain’s red-granite surface inset with bronze maple leaves, the sky and trees reflect back creating the impression of leaves floating down a stream. It’s an iconic image designed to tug the heartstrings of every Canadian. A few metres away, a compass face points west in the direction of Halifax from where Canadians in both wars embarked. The inscription reads: “From dangers shared, our friendship prospers.” Yet despite the monument’s relatively modest size, its troubles have been surprisingly big.

From the day it was unveiled, the little memorial has been beset by problems. First, leaves (from park sycamores rather than Canadian maples) clogged the water pump, leaving the monument as dry as a prairie summer. Then, when the plumbing did work, officials became so alarmed about children playing in the moving water that they posted warning signs like the Selfish Giant to stay away. They even considered fencing it. But the bigger problem was who would pay for its upkeep.

That’s because the man behind the memorial was former Canadian newspaper baron Conrad Black (b. 1944), Baron Black of Crossharbour. Alas, when the good lord became a convicted felon, responsibility for the monument fell into limbo and no one — not even the many names engraved so immodestly on its granite compass — came to its rescue. “If I wasn’t preoccupied with other things,” Black said before handing over his shoes and belt to authorities, “I would raise or contribute a fund adequate to assure its maintenance.”[5] Finally, in 2007, the Canadian government agreed to step in. Maybe because of these failings, rather than in spite of them, this modest little memorial is thoroughly Canadian.

Trivia: On Parliament Hill in Ottawa, Queen Victoria’s statue watches un-amused over MPs and senators as if to say of their constant misdemeanours: “To err is human, to forgive is not government policy.”

Within sight of the Canada Memorial are Buckingham Palace and its vast Victoria Memorial (1911) by the Sir Thomas Brock (1847–1922). Let’s make our way there next before returning to discover some more sites of Canadian interest in Green Park.

Victoria Memorial: Canada’s Queen

Glancing up at the marble statue of Queen Victoria beneath a golden representation of Victory, you’d be forgiven if you thought the queen-empress towered majestically over her Canadian subjects like a giant west coast totem. In fact, she was plump, stood only five feet tall, and spent much of her life in seclusion mourning a dead husband and arranging her children’s royal marriages. Yet in many ways, this small and humourless woman was, and remains, Canada’s queen, present at the creation and an enduring part of our national character, myth, and psyche.

Victoria was born on May 24, 1819, with little expectation of a monarch’s crown. When she died in 1901 after more than sixty years wearing it, Canadians honoured her memory by making her birthday a national holiday — still celebrated with beer and fireworks in Ontario to the bemusement of other provinces. More enduring perhaps is her influence on the names of buildings, parks, streets, and other features across the country. Her name was even disguised in long-forgotten dead languages. John Campbell (1845–1914), Marquis of Lorne and governor general of Canada, renamed Pile O’ Bones, Saskatchewan, “Regina,” Latin for queen. It not only pleased early Canadian gazetteer-makers faced with another place called Victoria but the old gal herself, who just happened to be Lorne’s mother-in-law.

Victoria instilled the faraway colony and later country with a sense of order, deference to authority, and national do-goodness. Some even called her the Mother of Confederation for signing the country’s first constitution in 1867, the British North America Act. Queer as it may be, Canada’s founding queen even graced our last three-dollar bill.[6]

Trivia: In 1791, Prince Edward Augustus, Duke of Kent, took command of a regiment in Quebec. Abandoning his French mistress, he returned to England in 1801 and fathered Princess (later Queen) Victoria. Prince Edward Island bears his name, as does Quebec City’s Kent Gate.

Stop here a moment and look down the grand ceremonial avenue known as the Mall. Over the years this beautiful area of London has seen its fair share of pomp and pageantry, but perhaps none so vast nor as extraordinary as the colourful parade held for Queen Victoria in 1897 to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee.

The Mall: The Chameleon Laurier and the Queen’s Jubilee

In 1897, Queen Victoria celebrated sixty years on the throne. Throughout London, colourful flags with the insignia VRI for Victoria Regina et Imperatrix (“Victoria, queen and empress” in Latin) festooned windows and doorways along a winding procession route that led from here to St. Paul’s Cathedral. From all around the British Empire, dignitaries came to celebrate this magnificent occasion.

Sir Wilfrid Laurier (1841–1919), Canada’s new prime minister, led the colonial procession. The first French Canadian to be prime minister, he held “the highest place of any man of the queen’s dominions,” and was living proof of the variety of peoples and cultures who lived harmoniously in Victoria’s realms. In court dress and newly knighted, Laurier sat with his wife in an open carriage, escorted by the Governor General’s Foot Guards in a colourful procession. It paraded down the Mall and took the salute in the open square in front of Buckingham Palace (there was no Victoria Memorial then), where the queen herself joined it. The grand parade then marched up Constitution Hill, and down Piccadilly and Fleet Street to St. Paul’s Cathedral where the old queen, moved by the adulation, was seen to shed a tear.[7]

As dazzled as Laurier was by the pomp, he knew there was no such thing as a free lunch — not even at Buckingham Palace. Britain wanted to bind Canada into the empire more closely, especially in terms of military defence. Laurier was fearful that the country would be drawn into a war in South Africa that was looming on the horizon. So he kept his cards close to his chest, smiling and talking like an ardent imperialist but never committing to anything. He maintained this stance throughout his years as prime minister: a policy historians have called the “everlasting no.”[8]

Trivia: While visiting Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle, Sir John Thompson (1845–94), Canada’s fifth prime minister, suffered a heart attack and died. The queen was horrified and sent the Canadian’s corpse home on a warship painted black.

Behind the Victoria Memorial is Buckingham Palace, not to be confused with the headquarters of the National Research Council in Ottawa, which some say is a scaled down replica of it. Over the years, the palace has welcomed royals and royal pretenders, but perhaps none so unusual as a pretend Canadian.

Buckingham Palace: The King’s Canadian Brother

Not long after King George VI (1895–1952; reigned from 1936) came to the throne, an unusual visitor from the former colonies came to see him. No, it wasn’t the king’s Australian speech therapist, who helped him overcome his debilitating stutter, but Grey Owl (1888–1938), a tall Ojibwa from Canada with a drawn face and hawk-like nose. Grey Owl’s books and films about life in the wilds of Canada were immensely popular in Britain in the 1930s and his rustic, regal stature gave him a lot of leeway when it came to addressing the king.

Contrary to royal protocol, Grey Owl insisted that the king and his family be seated before he entered the palace’s audience chamber. He then surprised King George by greeting him with the words “Peace, brother.” But the king was more amused than affronted by this strange Canadian in leather moccasins and sporting an eagle feather in his hair. So much so that for the next three hours, he and the queen and their two young daughters (the current queen and her late sister Margaret) listened intently to what Grey Owl had to say about Canada’s northern animals and peoples. At the end of the lesson, Grey Owl held out one hand to the king and placed the other on his royal shoulder, saying: “Good-bye brother. I’ll be seeing you.” He then departed as majestically as he had arrived.

Years later it was revealed that Grey Owl was one of the world’s greatest hoaxers: he wasn’t an Ojibwa at all but a British immigrant named Archibald Belaney from Hastings, East Sussex.[9]

Queen Victoria’s 1897 Diamond Jubilee was celebrated in Britain and in Canada.

If your visit to London happens to occur between mid-August and late September, you may be able to venture inside the palace. If there is one thing Canadians like, it’s the chance to snoop at an open house. This hasn’t always been possible for people like us. Following the queen’s annus horribilus (horrible year in Latin) in 1992, the palace was opened to paying visitors to help defray the costs of refurbishing Windsor Castle, damaged by fire. Mind you, some visitors are disappointed they don’t run into Her Majesty on the visit. “At least when you go to Disneyland,” complained one, “Mickey Mouse is there.”

Here’s to Queen Victoria, dressed in all her regalia/With one foot in Canada, and the other in Australia.— Canadian poet unknown[10]

Now let’s turn back to the ornate, iron and gilt gates which we passed a few minutes ago on the edge of Green Park. These are the Canada Gates, though it’s easy to miss the connection if you don’t scrutinize the stone and ironwork carefully.

Green Park: Canada’s Golden Gates

The Victoria Memorial comprises not only the grand marble statue of the queen-empress but also a series of ornamental gates that encircle it. These gates represent South Africa, Australia, Newfoundland, and many other former colonies of Britain. Canada, the empire’s eldest daughter, paid the equivalent of about $3 million to be part of this sprawling homage to its late queen.[11]

All hail Queen Victoria: The Victoria Memorial as seen through Canada’s equally grand golden gates in Green Park.

Naturally, we got our money’s worth. The Canada Gates are the most elaborate of any found here. They were produced by a group of artists associated with the Arts and Crafts Movement known as the Bromsgrove Guild. Their notable skills also grace the gates of nearby Buckingham Palace and the Lusitania, though it famously sank in 1915.

Only the coats of arms of six provinces made it onto the original gates. That’s because the cut-off date for inclusion was 1903 and at the time Saskatchewan and Alberta were not yet provinces. British Columbia, on the other hand, was so new it hadn’t got around to the important things like designing a coat of arms. The gates remained unfinished until 1982 when the crests of the missing provinces were finally placed on the stone pillars.[12] Newfoundland, which was not part of Canada when the gates were built, has a column nearby. It has the dubious distinction of being the only colony in the British Empire to gain independence from Britain and then lose it again. Nunavut, Yukon, and the Northwest Territories still wait for full self-government and their place of honour on the gates.

Victoria’s eldest grandson, Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II (1859–1941), attended the official unveiling of the memorial in 1911. Willy didn’t like the English much but was loyal to his English grandmamma, even though he believed in the last years of her reign that it was high time the old woman died. Few at the ceremony could have guessed that Britain and Canada would be at war with Germany three years later, making Wilhelm the most vilified man in Canada and throughout the British Empire.

Two other places of Canadian interest in Green Park bear brief mention before we set off down the Mall.

The first is Spencer House, located midway up Queen’s Walk on the park’s eastern edge. Completed in 1766 and faced in Portland stone, it is one of the last surviving aristocratic town homes in the area and is considered by many to be the most important. It once belonged to the family of Diana (1961–97), Princess of Wales, born Lady Diana Spencer.

The Canadian connection to Spencer House is found in the green-and-white dining room on the first floor overlooking the park. Above the fireplace is the iconic painting Death of General Wolfe (1771) by the American painter Benjamin West (1738–1820). It’s displayed between two other historical paintings by West, The Death of the Chevalier Bayard (1772) and the Death of Epaminondas (1773). It’s hard to think of Wolfe as part of a set, but this one is. The paintings were all commissioned by King George III to depict heroic deaths in history.

Hold on, some of you might say, isn’t West’s most famous painting in Canada? Indeed it is, in not one but two places: Ottawa’s National Gallery of Canada and Toronto’s Royal Ontario Museum. The painting at Spencer House may belong to the royal collection, but it isn’t the original. And therein lies the rub of our next discovery for Canadian visitors to London.

Spencer House from Green Park. Once the home of the family of Diana, Princess of Wales, it now conceals a Canadian connection.

Spencer House: The Death of General Wolfe

King George III was not a connoisseur of art, but as the saying goes, he knew what he liked and he liked what he knew. And what he liked were historical paintings with a moral purpose. So when the king encouraged the young West to paint classical scenes depicting courage, he reasonably expected to see some brave men in togas.

But that wasn’t what West had in mind. He planned to paint a modern example of bravery featuring soldiers in contemporary dress. Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723–92), the leading painter of his day, is said to have thought this rather vulgar and advised the king against buying it. Although the king didn’t like Reynolds much, he valued his opinion when it came to art. He dutifully told West he wasn’t interested.

It didn’t matter. The precocious West produced his painting anyway, vulgar modern dress and all, and the Death of General Wolfe turned out to be an astonishing artistic success. People flocked to view it. Even the elderly and infirm William Pitt (1708–88), 1st Earl of Chatham, the politician who had ordered the assault on Quebec, came to see what all the fuss was about. He alone seemed unimpressed by the tableau and wondered why the death of a common and presumably expendable soldier had everyone in the painting looking so sad.

Yet for the vast majority, the painting was unquestionably a tour de force or what one contemporary historian has described as “a stupendous piece of drama; brilliance and gloom, victory and death, saintly sacrifice and inconsolable sorrow set side by side.”[13] But more problematically, it wasn’t the king’s. When a wealthy aristocrat snatched it up instead, the king had no choice but to commission a copy to adorn his wall. And a slightly smug West was only too happy to oblige.[14]

In 1991, Spencer House was host to an event with another Canadian connection. Lord Black, then proprietor of London’s Daily Telegraph among other newspapers owned by his Chicago-based Hollinger International Inc., threw a party here. And not just any party. Over 200 guests attended the splashy event, including former-British prime minister Margaret Thatcher (1925–2013). With flights, hotels, and food, the entire event was estimated to cost Hollinger’s beleaguered shareholders a cool $2.5 million.[15]

Empires die of indigestion.— Napoleon Bonaparte

A few yards along Queen’s Walk toward the Mall is another house of Canadian interest. Look for the stately white building with a corner turret. This is Stornoway House (13 Cleveland Row), now an office but once an elegant private home that boasted fourteen bedrooms, six reception areas, and a ballroom.[16] Although heavily bombed during the Second World War, the exterior remains largely unchanged from 1817 when it was occupied by John Lambton (1792–1840), 1st Earl of Durham. Durham’s little known but landmark report in 1839 was the first to propose a form of government in Canada in which the governor was responsible to an elected legislature (called “responsible government”). This was the first tentative step toward political independence in Canada and ultimately the breakup of the British Empire.

Stornoway House: Lord Durham’s Indigestion

Even Lord Durham’s friends thought he was an odd choice to investigate the rebellions in Upper and Lower Canada in 1837–38. Cultured, handsome, and fabulously rich, he was also dyspeptic, high strung, and notoriously vain. But his strong liberal ideas — he was popularly known to his fellow Whig politicians as “Radical Jack” — made him apparently the ideal man to show Britain was serious about change in the Canadian colonies.

Yet despite Durham’s promise to be the humble instrument of authority, his arrival in Canada was anything but. Mounted on a white horse, in full regalia and accompanied by an orchestra, his lavish landing could have shamed a sultan. To the delight of his political opponents in the opposition Tory Party, moreover, he quickly overstepped his authority and returned home post-haste.

But it was back in London where Durham ultimately proved the right man for the job. Keen to restore his name, in late 1838 he sat down to write his Report on the Affairs of British North America — perhaps at a desk overlooking this very spot in Green Park.

“He worked incessantly,” his wife reported, and his health, which was always frail, grew worse by the day. By February 1839, his report calling for responsible government in Canada to prevent future rebellions was finished and, practically speaking, so was he. Durham died soon afterward from consumption (tuberculosis). “I would fain hope I have not lived in vain,” he said. “Whatever the Tories say, the Canadians will one day do justice to my memory.”[17]

Durham’s report fundamentally changed how Canada would be governed. But if his report was far-sighted, it was a bit nasty too. Durham believed Canada’s problem of “two nations warring in the bosom of a single state” could only be solved by assimilating French Canada. He remains so vilified for these views that his portrait had to be removed from an outdoor display in Ottawa as late as 2008.

Trivia: In 1924, the Canadian-born newspaper baron William Aitken (1879–1964), 1st Baron Beaverbrook, took up residence at Stornoway House. It was bombed in 1940.

Stornoway House overlooking Green Park was once home to John “Radical Jack” Lambton, Lord Durham, the man who first proposed responsible government for Canada.

Now, let’s turn onto the Mall and walk eastward, with St. James’s Park on our right. Immediately on our left is the first of an assortment of park-side palaces. This is Lancaster House, a fine Italianate home built in 1825–27 for Frederick, Duke of York, the second son of King George III.

There is no need for any nation, however great, leaving the empire because the empire is a commonwealth of nations. — Lord Rosebery, 1887

Modest and understated Lancaster House isn’t, especially inside. Its ornate main rooms on the second floor are accessed by a spectacular staircase that was once the scene of a brief but surprising Canadian event.

Lancaster House: Trendy Trudeau Makes an Exit

In 1968, Pierre Trudeau (1919–2000) replaced Lester Pearson (1897–1972) as Canada’s fifteenth prime minister and came to London to attend his first Commonwealth prime ministers’ summit. The clubbish nature of the English-speaking organization of Britain’s former colonies at first perplexed the dashing French Canadian from Montreal, as did the odd assortment of African and Caribbean leaders dressed in their trademark safari suits. Some, like Cyprus’s Archbishop Makarios (1913–77), had been part of struggles for independence. Wearing black robes and a stovepipe mitre, the bearded giant towered over Trudeau and made the French Canadian a bit uneasy. He even wondered if the archbishop was hiding hand grenades under his garments.

As a reception at Lancaster House broke up, Trudeau left the stateroom and headed toward the opulent staircase. Spying the press gathered in the foyer below, he decided to make an exit that would play to the cameras and set him apart from the old warriors he had just left upstairs. He leapt onto the banister shouting “Olé” and slid down its length as guests watched in disbelief. “It burnished his reputation as a swinging bachelor,” the Commonwealth secretary-general later said, and earned the young prime minister the nickname “Trendy Trudeau” in the British tabloid press.[18]

A few steps beyond is St. James’s Palace, the official seat of the royal court since 1698. We’ll say a bit more about the palace on our next walk.

The sun never set on the British Empire, and never rose on the Commonwealth. — Historian Max Beloff

Next to it behind a garden wall and row of colourful flags is Marlborough House, once home to the first Duke and Duchess of Marlborough. Today, it is home to the Commonwealth Secretariat, the headquarters of the association of about fifty-three former British colonies — give or take an expelled dictatorship or two.

Marlborough House: The End of Empire

As Canada and other colonies in the British Empire matured and gained independence, they surprised just about everyone by agreeing to form a family-like association — and we all know what families can be like.

It was unquestionably an odd group. Yet in the beginning the members of the British Commonwealth got along relatively well, fought wars together, and were for the most part still, well, very British. That began to change in the early 1960s, however, when the new members from Africa and the Caribbean demanded more say in running Commonwealth affairs. For starters they insisted on dropping the prefix “British” from the group’s name and demanded to be treated as equals. At a conference in 1966, they went so far as to turn the table completely on Mother Britain by badgering its prime minister, Harold Wilson (1916–95) so much he shouted back: “You’re treating Britain like a bloody colony!”[19]

Canada’s relationship to the Commonwealth has always been up and down —sometimes enthusiastic but sadly more often not. Much has depended on the personal whimsies of each Canadian prime minister.

Pearson, a winner of a Nobel Peace Prize, was a pragmatist who wanted to keep republics such as India in the association in order to keep them out of the hands of Soviet Russia and China. John Diefenbaker (1895–1979) made the fight against racial discrimination his cause célèbre but in the process divided the organization. “Your policies are not only wrong but dangerous,” he told South Africa’s apartheid leaders. They called him a vicious fellow and walked out.[20]

Trudeau, after his initial perplexity with the grouping, fell in love with it and was soon wearing safari suits himself. Brian Mulroney (b. 1939), took up Dief’s old cause and led efforts to end apartheid in South Africa — often straining his relationship with his Conservative idol Thatcher.

Another influential but less well-known Canadian was the Commonwealth’s first secretary-general, Arnold Smith (1915–94). He was a career diplomat and a former ambassador to the Soviet Union. In 1965, Smith took charge of the Commonwealth Secretariat and had to skilfully manoeuvre it through family quarrels and its own rocky years of independence. Fearing the place was bugged by MI5, Britain’s security agency, he held confidential discussions in the garden. Despite this, he wrote in his memoirs, “Historians will consider the Commonwealth the greatest of all Britain’s contributions to man’s social and political history.”[21]

Before we leave Marlborough House, let’s take quick note of two small monuments here. On Marlborough Road, opposite the Friary Court of St. James’s Palace, is a bronze fountain to Queen Alexandra (1844–1925) by Alfred Gilbert. The Princess Diana of her day, Alexandra was the long suffering wife of the philanderer King Edward VII (1841–1910; reigned from 1901). A once-popular hotel in Winnipeg bore her name, as does an historic theatre in Toronto.

Trivia: Of the fifty-three or so countries that comprise the Commonwealth, the queen is head of state in sixteen of them, including Canada. She is the world’s only international monarch.

Inset into the garden wall at the corner of Marlborough Road is a tablet to Queen Mary (1867–1953), consort of the next king, King George V (1865–1936, reigned from 1910). Like Alexandra, Mary spent her widowhood in Marlborough House. It was here that Mary learned that her eldest son, the dashing King Edward VIII (1894–1972; reigned briefly in 1936), would marry the woman he loved, Wallis Simpson (1896–1986). Canadians liked Edward — he owned a ranch in Alberta — but they disliked the idea of Queen Wallis. She was not only twice divorced, but American.

“What will Lady Eaton do now?” asked a woman near Nut Mountain, Saskatchewan, when she learned the king was going to marry a Simpson. Simpson’s and Eaton’s were rival department stores in Canada.[22]

At the junction of Marlborough Road and the Mall, let’s turn and head into St. James’s Park for one of the most romantic views in London. From the bridge over the duck pond you can see Buckingham Palace at one end and Downing Street and the Italianate Foreign and Commonwealth Office at the other. If you need a rest, you can sit in an inviting park deck chair. Be warned, however, ever-vigilant park collectors habitually appear out of nowhere to collect payment for these. If you hear familiar honking, it’s probably the noise of a few Canada geese nearby. Lucky ones at that.

11. St. James’s Park: The Most Loathsome Bird in Britain

“Should there ever be a prize for Britain’s most hated bird, then surely it would go to the Canada goose,” wrote a British newspaper journalist in 2008, echoing the thoughts of many park visitors with do-do on their shoes.[23] The birds are Britain’s shame the writer went on: park potatoes who lounge around all day long and produce nothing but offspring and excrement.

Yet the story of how these unwelcome Canadians got here is as old as the park itself.

The Canadian geese of St. James’s Park arrived here not as migrant tourists but as gifts from early explorers in the New World around 1665. These explorers knew King Charles II appreciated his birds, be they feathered or frocked, and thought these specimens would be a nice addition to his park menagerie. But if these noisy, honking, and untidy pooping machines from Canada weren’t bad enough, over the years their British descendants have evolved into creatures far more slothful, living on public handouts. After eating an endless supply of white-bread crusts, they are now fatter, lazier, and almost flightless compared to their Canadian cousins.

Moreover, without natural predators, their numbers exploded. From the original few imports, the flock in Britain grew to some 80,000 breeding adults. With their population at an all-time high and their popularity at an all-time low, park officials in the 1990s took action. Hundreds of the birds were despatched in a controversial cull that outraged animal rights campaigners and sparked the creation of the Canada Goose Conservation Society. Yet in the end, clean footpaths triumphed over dirty water fowl and today only a lucky few of these old world cousins of Branta Canadensis survive in beautiful and tidy St. James’s Park.

Now, let’s head back to the Mall and continue east. On our left at the staircase is a memorial to King George VI and his long surviving widow, Queen Elizabeth (1900–2002), known after 1952 as the Queen Mother.

Trivia: On average, a Canada goose poops every three minutes.

The statue of George VI was placed here after his death in 1952 and was joined by one of his wife in 2009. The bronze reliefs set into the stairs depict the two scenes most fondly associated with the queen: horse racing and her visit during the Second World War to London’s heavily bombed East End. After a bomb hit Buckingham Palace, she famously remarked that she could now look East Enders in the face.

George VI was a shy and dutiful man with an irreproachable character and strong sense of decency. He also had a look of perpetual weariness in his eyes. As the second in line to the throne, young “Bertie” was never groomed to be king. He only got the job after his older brother, Edward, abdicated to marry Wallis Simpson. Despite his debilitating stutter, the new king became a popular wartime monarch — much aided and abetted by his charming and savvy wife.

In 1939, the royal couple visited Canada — the first reigning monarch and his consort to do so — and became the best loved. Much of that adoration was due to the queen. Her energy, easy manner, and sense of humour compensated for the king’s awkwardness. Their royal tour on the eve of war also solidified an important bond.

Once asked why he decided to fight in the Second World War, a Canadian soldier replied: “I saw the queen when she was in Canada and I said if there is ever a war, I’m going to fight for that little lady.”[24]

Carlton House Steps: Two Kings and a Queen

After months of planning, the Empress of Australia finally steamed up the St. Lawrence to Quebec City, accompanied by a flotilla of warships. Along the shoreline, bonfires were lit to greet the royal passengers. On shore, dressed in ceremonial court uniform, was Canada’s prime minister, William Lyon Mackenzie King (1874–1950): “Welcome, Sire, to your Majesty’s realm of Canada,” he said with a practised bow.

Over the next month, the king and queen travelled some 3,000 miles (5,000 kilometres) across Canada and back again onboard a special train kitted out with every convenience, including air conditioning and a post office. No matter what hour their whistle stops took place, crowds came out to see them. At one stop in the prairies, 8,000 people cheered their arrival. “How many people live here?” asked a journalist accompanying the royal couple. “Nobody,” came the reply. In Ontario, the royal couple unveiled the National War Memorial in Ottawa and descended a mine in Sudbury. In Vancouver, they opened Lion’s Gate Bridge.

No less memorable was an event in Doaktown, New Brunswick. Travelling by car from Newcastle to Fredericton, the royal couple stopped at a private home for tea. Measures had been taken to provide comfort for the queen and her ladies in waiting but none for His Majesty. When the error became obvious, George VI was escorted outside where he is said to have relieved himself next to the Miramichi.[25]

Throughout the visit, Canada’s prime minister was the royals’ constant companion. Accustomed more to jeers than cheers, King revelled in their popularity. To ensure he alone shared the limelight, King told Canada’s governor general, John Buchan (1875–1940), 1st Baron Tweedsmuir, he had no official role on the tour. When the royals asked after their vice-regal friend, King said he was regrettably indisposed — and went on smiling for the cameras.

After the war, George VI witnessed many dramatic changes, including personal ones. With India’s independence he lost the much-coveted title of emperor. But the humiliations didn’t stop there. To ensure that the monarch would have no legal or constitutional role over the new British Commonwealth, Canada suggested the king become “the symbol of the free association and, as such, Head of the Commonwealth.” To which a perplexed and wounded king is said to have replied, “What exactly am I to do, as such?”

King George VI and his wife Queen Elizabeth undertook a royal tour of Canada in 1939. If Prime Minister W.L. Mackenzie King could have squeezed into a photograph, he would have.

Now, let’s ascend the Carlton House steps. Immediately at the top on our left is 2 Carlton House Terrace, currently the home of Britain’s foreign minister but once home to Field Marshal Horatio Kitchener (1850-1916), 1st Earl of Kitchener, a controversial military leader who died when his ship struck a mine. With his trademark moustache and stern features, Kitchener was an imperial man if there ever was one. We best know him as the glaring face on the recruiting posters of the First World War that challenged the patriotism of any man who refused to serve king and country. So high were anti-German feelings in Canada during the war that Berlin, Ontario, was renamed after him.

What am I going to do at a “fair”? — Charles de Gaulle on being invited to Expo ’67

Across the street is a statue you wouldn’t expect to find in London: that of Charles de Gaulle (1890–1970), leader of the Free French Army and president of France from 1959–69. It is by the British sculptor Angela Conner. After the fall of France in 1940, de Gaulle came to London and broadcast patriotic speeches from nearby. In Canada, he is remembered for his other stirring words or, perhaps more correctly, just one word — “free.”

Carlton Gardens: Le Général Oversteps His Welcome

General Charles de Gaulle didn’t want to visit Canada but Quebec’s new premier, Daniel Johnson Sr. (1915–68), convinced him to come to see Expo ’67, the world’s fair in Montreal. “Mon Général, Quebec needs you. It is now or never,” Johnson said, and de Gaulle reluctantly agreed.[26]

French Canadians went crazy for de Gaulle. Greeted by crowds at every turn, his tour of Quebec recalled his triumphant return to Paris during the Second World War (or, as noted by some suspicious English Canadians, a certain dictator’s liberation of the Sudetenland); a fact that did not sit well in an Ottawa already uneasy with the president’s views on Quebec’s independence.

In Montreal, so many people clamoured to see the French president that he was obliged to stand in his car for the last 50 kilometres of his ride. At Montreal’s city hall, he was surrounded by separatist placards: “France libre.” “Québec libre.” “Le Québec aux Québecois!”

Montreal’s mayor, the federalist Jean Drapeau (1916–99), didn’t want de Gaulle to speak to the assembled crowd and tried to usher him inside. “No, it is to them, the people cheering me, that I want to speak,” de Gaulle said, walking up to a radio microphone that had hastily appeared on the balcony to the mayor’s chagrin. Looking out across the crowds, de Gaulle went further in his support of an independent Quebec than he had ever gone publicly. His one word too many, “Vive le Québec libre (free),” made him an instant hero to indépendantistes and persona non grata to everyone else.[27]

Crowds of well-wishers greet French president Charles de Gaulle at Expo ’67 in Montreal. He went home for saying one word too many.

Walk past the gardens of the old Carlton House that once stood here and admire the prettiest backs in all of London. They belong to three private gentlemen’s clubs: from left to right, the Reform, the Travellers and the Athenaeum. We’ll say a bit more about two of these on our next walk.

Just beyond the gardens of the Athenaeum Club and largely hidden by trees is an 1866 statue by Matthew Nobel of Sir John Franklin (1786–1847), probably the best-known explorer of Canada’s Arctic. He died while searching for the elusive Northwest Passage. Franklin’s heroic story is partially about an aging sailor’s quest for self-redemption. But it is also about a woman’s unwavering commitment to her husband after he was presumed lost. The bronze on the plinth may be that of Sir John, but the monument is really a tribute to the perseverance of Lady Jane, his wife.

Franklin Monument: An Absent Husband

In May 1845, when Sir John Franklin set out in HMS Erebus and Terror to Canada’s north from the River Thames, all the stars seemed aligned in his favour. He was an accomplished Arctic explorer and national hero, and his ships were the best equipped for their time. In addition to modern screw propellers for ploughing through pack ice, Franklin’s cargo included some 8,000 tins of non-perishable food — enough for his crew of 129 to last three years.

One of several London memorials to Sir John Franklin, the lost explorer of Canada’s Arctic. His disappearance in 1845 sparked thirty search parties, many encouraged by his wife.

But after being spotted by whalers in Baffin Bay, Franklin and his crew were never seen again. We now know that he met his maker in 1847 near King William Island and that technology, perhaps as much as the harsh Canadian conditions, was a factor in his death: the iron propellers rusted quickly and lead from the solder of the food tins may have poisoned his crew. But at the time, his disappearance captured the public’s imagination around the world and prompted thirty search attempts to Canada’s north over twelve years. No one was more responsible for these searches than Lady Franklin herself.

Armed only with pen, paper, and a strong Victorian sense of duty, Lady Franklin never forgot her “absent husband” and appealed to everyone for help in finding him — British politicians, naval officials, even the U.S. president. Between 1850 and 1857, she even outfitted five ships at her own expense. Her wealthy father grew so alarmed over her efforts, he disinherited her.

Of all the expeditions galvanized by Lady Jane’s efforts, only four managed to shed any light on the mystery of her husband’s fate, and only one came back with conclusive evidence he was dead. For her “zeal and self-sacrifice,” the widow Franklin was awarded the Royal Geographical Society’s founder’s medal in 1860 —the first woman to receive the prize.

At Waterloo Place, head down the Duke of York steps and back into the Mall and St. James’s Park. Before we do, let’s pause at the nearby equestrian statue of King Edward VII (1841–1910, reigned from 1901), imperitor rex, the last monarch commemorated on our walk. Edward was Queen Victoria’s eldest son and great-grandfather to the present monarch. In 1860, as a young Prince of Wales and heir to the throne, he was the first member of the royal family to make an official visit to Canada, starting a trend that continues to this day.

Trivia: On a trip to Canada in 1827, Sir John Franklin visited Ottawa and laid the first stone in the third lock of the Rideau Canal.

Edward VII Monument: Our Oversexed Rex

Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, lived large and lived well. Denied much of a role by his domineering mother, Queen Victoria, he drank, gambled, and womanized like a royal rebel without a cause. In 1863, he finally settled down and married the beautiful Princess Alexandra of Denmark. The two and their circle of friends became known as the “Marlborough House Set” after the London residence where the young royals lived.

Married life didn’t slow Edward down for long, however, and his extramarital affairs became legendary. The library of Marlborough House, with its door hidden by fake books, was one of his favourite trysting places. (To keep their virtue, women had to appreciate Edwardian puns: the latch was concealed beside a book called On the Door by John Locke.) When good living meant Edward could no longer do up the last button of his waist coat, men’s fashion simply followed suit.

In 1860, at the younger and slimmer age of eighteen, Edward made the first royal visit to Canada and enchanted women wherever he went. In Montreal, known then as it is now for its dynamic nightlife, the prince partied like it was 1899. Yet Mama was never far from the fun. In Halifax, he visited the home of her father and plucked her a rose from the garden. In Montreal, he dedicated the first railway bridge across the St. Lawrence River to her. Even in sleepy Cobourg, Ontario, he couldn’t escape her presence. The impressive new courthouse he opened was called Victoria Hall.

After only nine years on the throne, Edward was succeeded by his son, King George V (1865–1936; reigned from 1910). Like his father, George ruled over a quarter of the world’s population; but the empire was in its twilight. On his deathbed George’s last words were reputedly: “How goes the empire?” But some say what he really asked was: “What’s on at the Empire?”— a local theatre in Leicester Square. A less noble finale to the age of empire perhaps, but no less poignant.[28]

Trivia: An equestrian statue of Edward VII by Thomas Brock stands in Toronto’s Queen’s Park. The 1919 bronze originally stood in New Delhi, India, but was saved from the scrap heap after India’s independence.

Ahead of us on the way back to St. James’s Park is a bronze statue of Prince Frederick Augustus, Duke of York (1763–1827) on a tall column of pink granite. It is by the British sculptor Sir Richard Westmacott.

Who’s who and who’s blue: Queen Victoria and her family in 1887. Edward, Prince of Wales (top), visited Canada in 1860. The queen’s son-in-law, the Marquis of Lorne (left, fourth row) was governor general of Canada from 1879 to 1883. His wife, the queen’s daughter Princess Louise, didn’t take to Canada and stayed home most of the time. Prince Arthur, Duke of Connaught (middle, fourth row), was governor general of Canada from 1911 to 1916. As a young man in 1870 he fought Fenian raiders in Canada.

Frederick was the second and favourite son of King George III, and commander-in-chief of the British Army. Although a popular soldier, his military career came to an abrupt end over accusations that his mistress sold commissions in the army. He spent the rest of his life building homes he couldn’t afford (like Lancaster House) and avoiding debt collectors at his door.[29] Despite these human failings, Upper Canada’s Lieutenant-Governor John Graves Simcoe (1752–1806) admired the duke so much he named his military garrison on Lake Ontario after him in 1793. The name York didn’t stick for long and reverted back to its Indian name Toronto in 1834.

Trivia: When New Brunswick became a colony in 1784, the loyalist town of Ste. Anne’s Point was renamed Frederick’s Town in honour of the Duke of York. It was shortened to Fredericton in 1785.

Descend the steps back into the Mall and turn left.

Head toward Admiralty Arch, built in 1911 as the southern entrance to the processional route leading up to the Victoria Memorial. On our right along the Mall is a statue of Captain James Cook (1728–79), again by Thomas Brock. Cook was one of Britain’s greatest explorers and most skilled ocean navigators. The 1914 bronze shows him resting in front of a capstan on a coil of rope. Sly observers have remarked it’s an elegant pose on a plinth but a dangerous one on a sailing ship. Cook is mostly remembered for his travels in the Pacific and along Canada’s west coast, but the legendary seaman cut his teeth in eastern Canada. It was while leading Wolfe down the St. Lawrence River to Quebec in 1759 that Cook first caught the attention of admiralty brass.

Cook Monument: The Ramparts of Quebec

At the start of the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), the St. Lawrence River was uncharted and dangerous. There were no published maps of the river into the heartland of French Canada and whatever records existed were unreliable. Beyond the Saguenay, submerged shoals and underwater channels confounded the ablest of seamen.

For the French, this was a good thing. They relied upon these river dangers as a natural buffer against an invading navy. After 150 years of settlement in Canada, the river had both served and protected Quebec well. Colonel Louis-Antoine de Bougainville (1729–1811), a young French army officer in Canada and future explorer, shrewdly called the river “Quebec’s most effective rampart.”[30]

Cook joined the Royal Navy in 1755 and swiftly advanced to become master of the sixty-four-gun Pembroke. He arrived in Canada as part of a naval force that captured the French fort of Louisbourg in Nova Scotia. He then spent the following winter in Halifax awaiting spring orders to attack Quebec.

Maybe it was the excitement of uncharted waters, or simply the boredom of a long Canadian winter, but Cook busied himself learning everything he could about the river. When spring came and the fleet set off, it was Cook’s ship that carefully led the British armada to Quebec, taking soundings and marking the way with buoys.

On the morning of June 27, 1759, General Louis-Joseph de Montcalm (1712–59) looked out from his stone fortress high on the cliffs and was astonished to see the British fleet gathered in the nearby basin. Resigned to his inescapable fate, he wryly predicted that a good map of the river would be published soon.[31]

Turn left before you reach Admiralty Arch and head across the concourse next to the British Council. On either side is a soulless warren of gray buildings and back streets. This street is known as Spring Gardens, named for a pleasure garden that once occupied a strip of land from here back to Waterloo Place.

In Shakespeare’s time, Londoners came to Spring Gardens to enjoy promenades, outdoor music, and dancing around a water fountain. When King Charles II came to the throne, he sold off part of the garden to his cousin Prince Rupert.

Trivia: In May 1670, Charles II granted Prince Rupert and his associates the exclusive right to be the “true and absolute Lordes and Proprietors” of most of the lands west of the Great Lakes to the Pacific Coast and north to the Arctic Ocean.

Around this time Rupert acquired another piece of property from his royal cousin, but not in London. He became the first governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company and with the title acquired most the territory west of the Great Lakes for the exclusive use of his private company. The area known as Rupert’s Land bore this name right up until 1870.

Spring Gardens: Rupert’s Land

Ruprecht von Wittelsbach (1619–82) was a prince without a throne — or even a home for that matter. His parents were the king and queen of Bohemia, but after fleeing their country after an early uprising became known ever after as the Winter King and Queen. Their departure was so sudden, in fact, they almost left their baby, Rupert, behind.

As a young exile, Rupert came to England to support his uncle King Charles I (1600–49; reigned from 1625) in the English Civil War. Talented and courageous, Rupert became a skilled military leader — though some say his exploits bordered on insanity. At 6’4”, he was definitely a hard man to ignore. He also happened to be the best tennis player in all of England.

Unfortunately for Rupert, neither war nor tennis made him very rich. So in 1665, when two wild French adventurers from Canada named Pierre-Esprit Radisson (1636–1710) and Médard Chouart des Groseilliers (1618–ca.1696) proposed a new route to the fur territory of North America via Hudson’s Bay, the prince saw a way at last to make money. In return for an exclusive right to the region, Rupert promised the king the pelts of two elks and two black beaver every year. Evidently short of these things, the king accepted and the Hudson’s Bay Company was born with Rupert at its helm.

Many of the first meetings of the company were held in Spring Gardens. Without an office, the seven distinguished men Rupert assembled for the company ran its affairs from his home. To his bitter disappointment, however, he never made a penny from the Canadian fur trade and died here poor in 1682. Among the chief mourners at his funeral were his fellow members of the Hudson’s Bay Company — and his tennis coach.

Nowadays, Spring Gardens, the street, leads not into any delightful garden at its terminus but to a more modern necessity: the Trafalgar Square Car Park. Head to nearby Trafalgar Square, with Canada House in front of us, where our walk ends.

Trivia: The busy seaport of Prince Rupert, B.C., is named for Prince Ruprecht von Wittelsbach.

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