Harrow bears the same sort of relationship to London’s Brent as Borgo a Mozzano to Bagni di Lucca; in both cases it’s the neighbouring borough. Harrow also bears a feature common to many Italian settlements: that of having an old town on a hill, the original centre, and a later ‘new’ town on the surrounding plain which, with the arrival of the railway, became the focus from the nineteenth century onwards.

Harrow, defined by writer John Betjeman as the ‘capital of metroland’ (the name affectionately given to the suburban areas built to the north-west of London in the first part of the 20th century and served by the Metropolitan line) has become a major shopping centre in recent years. We combined our visit there yesterday with a return journey through the old town.

Harrow-on-the-Hill’s high (for London!) location at 407 ft. (124 metres) and the current health crisis combined to enhance Harrow-on-the-Hill peaceful and village atmosphere. We found the high street remarkably traffic-free.

It was hard to believe that the first recorded road accident in the UK occurred here, as marked by the following plaque.

Rich in historic architecture with old pubs (alas, now closed for the duration) and houses ranging from the charming to the imposing, Harrow-on-the-Hill is a great place to escape from the ‘great Wen’.

The town’s spiritual focus is the church of Saint Mary, possibly built on the site of a heathen temple. (Indeed, the word ‘Heathen’ and ‘Harrow’ are supposed to come from the same root).

Founded in the eleventh century by Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury in 1087, the parish church of the Blessed Virgin Mary was consecrated by the archbishop’s successor Saint Anselm in 1094.

We discovered the churchyard scattered with gorgeous bluebells and the juxtaposition of these flowers growing so near to some of the tombstones gave us a vibrant sense of life through death and renewed hope for the rather difficult times we are currently living through.

Nearby is the famous public school and the churchyard also contains what ex-pupil George Gordon, Lord Byron called his ‘favourite tombstone’: the Peachy tomb, from which wonderfully expansive views extend to Windsor Castle and beyond.

By the tomb is inscribed part of the ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’ genius’s poem “Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow”. Here is the complete text from that early verse:

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine.
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as the gently swell,
‘Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!’

When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, ‘twould soothe my dying hour,—
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,—
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell.
With this fond dream, methinks, ’twere sweet to die—
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretched beneath this mantling shade,
Pressed by the turf where once my childhood played;
Wrapped by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mixed with the earth o’er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear,
Mourned by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,
And unremembered by the world beside.

 Allegra, the daughter Byron had from Clair Clairmont – who is herself buried in an Italian location well-known to us. See my post at

https://longoio2.wordpress.com/2016/02/29/claire-claremont-the-epilogue/ –

is buried in an unmarked grave outside, near to the south porch. It’s sad to recall that the hypocritical church authorities originally refused to bury the poor child here as, indeed, they refused to bury her dad. (Do read more about this tragic event in my post at

https://longoio2.wordpress.com/2016/02/28/allegra-con-spirito/

Nearby is the famous Harrow  School. It was founded in 1572 by John Lyon under a Royal Charter of Elizabeth I, and is one of the UK’s original seven public schools, another of which is Dulwich College where I was a pupil from the pioneering ‘Dulwich experiment’ aimed at admission from LCC schools to these somewhat exclusive institutions. What enlightened times then!

Squash, the sport – originally called ‘Squasher’ – was invented in Harrow about 1830 and spread to other schools, eventually becoming the international sport it’s now. In the salad days of our marriage we enjoyed a game in these original squash courts. Here’s a testimony to those times:

We also reminded ourselves that we’d once had ideas to purchase a property here. I wonder how much it would be worth today if we had!

Byron termed Harrow’s hill as his ‘Mount Ida’, after the mountain in Crete where Zeus, hidden from his avenging father Chronos, was brought up with milk from the goat Amalthea. Here’s another wistful poem he wrote:

 

On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow-on-the-hill

1.

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;

2.

Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny’d!

3.

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.

4.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.

5.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.

6.

Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a  Garrick  reviv’d.

7.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

8.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!

9.

But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
“Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.”

 

Perhaps we should now write our own regretful poem on lost and misspent youth in the manner of Byron? Here goes then!

 

A Game on the Hill

 

Yet far from the shadow of age,

in the youth of our love

we played a delightful game

mid bluebell and foxglove.

 

With little care for the morrow,

with leaping energy

we enjoyed ourselves as twin lambs:

what divine memory!

 

Such an aching sweetness

from recalls I draw:

forever past, forever gone;

terrible Eternal law!