Weekender: St Ives
Swept up by a mood of republicanism, Peter Baber decided to buck the national trend and discover the delights of Oliver Cromwell’s stamping ground
Peter Baber discovers Cromwellian history in Cambridgeshire
EARLY LAST SUMMER, as the country was about to go ga-ga yet again over another royal wedding, it seemed to me that a corrective might be in order. And what better corrective than a visit to the hometown of the one man best known in British history for standing up to the monarchy – Oliver Cromwell? Let me explain. It’s always seemed strange to me that, while Britain continues to have numerous well-funded attractions centred on people whose role in history was relatively minor (Queen Victoria arguably being a case in point), there are only a couple of museums solely devoted to the Lord Protector, as Cromwell was called when he ruled the realm. And the only one in the town of his birth was recently threatened with closure. So it was that one Friday evening I found myself heading for Stroud Hill Park caravan park to the east of Huntingdon, the town in question. Here I received a warm welcome and – this being an adultsonly park – guaranteed peace by 11pm. Although the main focus of the weekend was Cromwell, I had to wait for my wife to come down from the north of England on the Saturday morning; so it seemed wise to while away the time looking around Houghton Mill, a National Trust-owned water mill only a few miles away on the banks of the River Ouse. It’s now proudly selling its own flour again after a period as a rather dank youth hostel. There is also a National Trust-owned caravan park next door.
Blazing glory
By the time I’d returned to Stroud Hill Park to meet my wife, the sun was showing no sign of hiding behind any clouds, and the very friendly warden suggested that, in such weather, Huntingdon was perhaps not the best place to head to. Nearby St Ives, he said, would be a better bet. This seemed okay to me: St Ives also has Cromwellian connections, as a large statue in the town (put up by private subscription in the teeth of opposition from the council) attests. Cromwell moved there after falling out with the burghers of Huntingdon, and it was while he was living in St Ives that he became even more radical in his political thinking.
Being diverted to St Ives also seemed appropriate if you know the famous rhyme that name-checks the town, about the man and his seven wives and cats. This connection is fairly blatant today, as the first big building you come to on the way in is the Seven Wives pub. We decided not to stop there, but to follow our warden’s advice and head to the waterfront, where we managed to park easily. This turned out to be excellent advice. It was a baking-hot evening and, after a short walk through the water meadows on the opposite side of the river from the town, we whiled away a couple of hours enjoying tapas at the River Terrace Café within the shadow of the main bridge in the town – one that Cromwell partially blew up during the English Civil War to prevent Charles I returning to London. The only explosions we witnessed, however, were ones of fun. A raucous party was getting underway in the pub on the other side of the river; a wedding party also drifted along the water one way while, in the other direction, a smaller boat carried a stag party, all neatly done out in drag. In short, the local population was making the most of the heat. And why not, in a town as charming as this? At one point I noticed a stall advertising boat trips up the river. “You’ve just missed the last boat,” the man said when I enquired. “But come back tomorrow evening, and we’ll take you to see the seals.” Seals? It seemed the heat had got to him. What would an animal best suited to the arctic seas be doing in a river such as this, at least 50 miles inland? Still, the promise was enough to make us want to come back. The next morning we finally made it to Huntingdon, and to the aforementioned Cromwell Museum. It’s housed in the grammar school that also educated Samuel Pepys for a short time – it’s really quite amazing that two of the best-known figures from the 17th century both had their grounding in this one-room building. Since the threatened closure, the museum is now privately managed by a charitable trust, but it still contains a huge range of Cromwelliana. There is his famous hat, some riding gear, and many, many portraits. One impression you really get (and one that should appeal to any caravanner mulling an early retirement) is what a late starter the man was. By the time he came to national prominence he was already in his late 40s – positively ancient for a 17th-century Englishman.
A cheeky chappie
The museum’s exhibits about Cromwell’s era put you in the picture. There is a special display about William Prynne, a hellfire preacher who had his cheeks branded and the top half of his ears chopped off for daring to make insinuations about Charles I’s wife. So you can see why the monarch wasn’t popular – although Prynne didn’t fare too well under Cromwell either, once the latter had become Lord Protector. Also included is a recipe book produced after the Restoration. Designed to show what a useless hostess Cromwell’s wife was, it has actually become an invaluable source of information for those studying English cookery of the past.
‘There is a display about William Prynne, who had the top of his ears chopped off for insinuating about Charles I’s wife‘
In fact, in 1660 the returning Royalists were so determined to remove all trace of Cromwell and his family that they disinterred the man himself from Westminster Abbey. However, they forgot to disinter his daughter Elizabeth, who died a couple of years before him. She still lies undisturbed among all the subsequent kings, queens and poets.
The old and the new
Beyond the museum, Huntingdon doesn’t have a huge amount more of historic interest – although there is the obligatory Cromwell trail, complete with leaflet. The town was a staging post on the Great North Road, so there is the odd impressive coaching inn such as the George Hotel. But at the other end of the town, the Old Bridge Hotel – which once must have been an impressive staging post with a view of another fine old bridge – has now been overshadowed by a noisy dual carriageway. So we decided to head out of town to the Windmill in Somersham, and have a delectable meal in its pretty front garden. There was just time for a quick snooze under the pub’s willow tree, with comfortable cushions thoughfully provided, before it was time to head back to St Ives and our promised seal encounter. Even as our boat (with its large party) slipped the moorings and headed into the water meadows, I was sceptical. We saw loads of geese, obviously, and cormorants too, but a seal? No. Then, just as our driver, Robin, was about to give up, a slippery dark shape appeared off to the left and the unmistakable face of a seal broke the water. This one was apparently the shyer of the two who currently dwell in this part of the river. Robin reckons the seals have been in this river for at least 300 years, with the original group possibly swimming up from the Wash through one of the irrigation channels when the Fens around here were drained. The seals certainly make for an astonishing sight when you see them. But no more astonishing, perhaps, than the thought that England was ever so completely convulsed by the actions of one determined republican gentleman farmer from this sleepy backwater.