London Calling. London Walks connecting. This is London. This is London Walks. Streets Ahead. Story time. History time.
Good morning from London.
Good morning London.
Good morning London Walkers, wherever you are.
And we’re off. Row, row, rowing our boats gently down the stream of time.
Three hundred and eleven years ago today, an Irish comedian gave London a birthday present.
The extraordinary thing is…
London’s still opening it.
That present was the oldest rowing race in the world.
And I’ll wager that if I stopped a hundred Londoners in the street this morning and asked them to name it, ninety-nine of them wouldn’t have the faintest idea.
Oxford against Cambridge?
No.
Henley?
No.
The answer is Doggett’s Coat and Badge.
Now there’s a title.
I’ve loved it ever since I first stumbled across it.
You hear it and think, “What on earth can that be?”
A public house?
A Victorian detective novel?
A tailor’s bill?
It certainly doesn’t sound like the world’s oldest rowing race.
So who was Doggett?
Thomas Doggett was an Irish actor. A comedian. A theatre manager. One of the biggest names on the London stage in the early eighteenth century.
If he were around today, he’d probably be a regular on television, popping up on chat shows and every celebrity programme going.
He was famous.
But fame wasn’t enough for him.
He wanted to leave London something.
And, boy, did he ever.
On the 1st of August, 1715, he endowed a rowing race for young Thames watermen who’d just completed their seven-year apprenticeship.
Three centuries and change later, London is still saying thank you.
Now that might sound like a rather specialised competition.
Believe me, it wasn’t.
Three hundred years ago the Thames was London’s great highway.
Forget traffic jams.
Forget the Circle Line.
Forget Uber.
If you wanted to cross London quickly, chances are you climbed into a boat.
The Thames watermen were London’s taxi drivers.
Only wetter.
And considerably tougher.
Thousands of them earned their living on the river.
They knew every current.
Every hidden snag.
Every dangerous swirl beneath old London Bridge.
Mind you, if a Thames waterman took the scenic route, the tide probably had something to do with it.
You didn’t become a Thames waterman overnight.
You served seven years as an apprentice.
Only then did you earn your freedom.
Doggett thought that deserved marking.
His prize?
Not cash.
Something much finer.
A magnificent scarlet coat.
And a beautifully crafted silver badge.
The badge bears the White Horse of Hanover, the emblem of George I.
Doggett was a committed Whig.
He welcomed the new Hanoverian king and wanted the race to celebrate the new dynasty as well as reward the young men who kept London moving.
Now picture the race.
It begins beneath London Bridge.
Then comes the hard part.
Upstream.
Against the current.
About four and a half miles.
Three hundred years ago the riverbanks looked utterly different.
The London of 1715 has, for the most part, vanished.
The river hasn’t.
Nor has the course.
Year after year, new generations of watermen pull on their oars through the very heart of London.
The skyline changes.
The river doesn’t.
Neither does the race.
The original competitors rowed heavy passenger wherries.
Working boats.
Not racing boats.
Imagine asking the Oxford crew to compete in removal vans.
Today the competitors row modern single sculls.
One rower.
One boat.
Usually six competitors.
Still newly qualified watermen.
Still competing for Doggett’s prize.
That continuity is part of the magic.
Here’s the really astonishing bit.
For more than three centuries Doggett’s Coat & Badge has endured.
Take that on board.
The Jacobite Rising.
The South Sea Bubble.
The American Revolution.
The Napoleonic Wars.
The Great Exhibition.
Jack the Ripper.
The Blitz.
The Swinging Sixties.
Covid.
Kings have come and gone.
Queens have come and gone.
Prime Ministers have come and gone.
Empires have risen and fallen.
Doggett’s Coat and Badge has simply carried on.
Stroke after stroke.
Year after year.
I find that immensely cheering.
In a world that seems determined to reinvent itself every Tuesday afternoon, here’s one tradition that quietly says, “No, thank you. We’ll carry on.”
There’s a lovely story that Thomas Doggett founded the race because he once fell into the Thames and a waterman rescued him.
It’s a splendid tale.
Only…
It almost certainly never happened.
The historians have searched high and low.
No evidence.
The true story is rather better.
A successful actor decided that ordinary working Londoners deserved extraordinary recognition.
He created a race.
Three hundred and eleven years later, we’re still talking about it.
If you’d like to see it for yourself, you can.
It’s no longer rowed on the 1st of August. The tides decide the date now.
This year it takes place on Wednesday, the 2nd of September.
London Bridge is a splendid place to watch the start.
Blackfriars gives you a fine view.
So does Waterloo.
Westminster is magnificent.
Or make your way to Cadogan Pier and welcome the winner home.
One final thought.
I’ve lived in London for more than half a century.
You’d think the city would have run out of surprises by now.
Not remotely.
Every now and then London quietly taps me on the shoulder and says,
“David… don’t forget Doggett.”
As if I could.
And that’s why I never tire of this place.
There’s always another corner to turn.
Always another story waiting.
See you tomorrow.