Digging Deep
In 1850, 15 years after my house was built, there was an 11-day public inquiry, which revealed that about half of the 2,209 houses in Hastings were in ‘the worst condition as to private drainage’. In short, a proper sewage system was urgently needed. Hastings Council, having started the inquiry, was then honour-bound to do something about it. Remarkably, they moved swiftly; a feat that would seem inconceivable to those currently tied up by contemporary red tape.
William Gant, the borough surveyor, was instructed to produce the first-ever, large-scale maps of the town (it took him three years) and by the time his arduous task had drawn to a close, a new sixmillion- gallon reservoir had been built on three acres of land leased from Sarah, Countess Waldegrave.
The end result was a 470-yardlong, six-inch pipeline connected to the two existing reservoirs: for reasons known only to those around at the time, it became known as the Spoon. This early Victorian initiative served the town until the end of the First World War, when the council was forced to raise the height of the reservoir and double its capacity to allow for the burgeoning seaside visitors.
Coincidentally, neighbouring St Leonards ignored the calls for improvements and 20 years later had to merge with Hastings to avoid a public catastrophe. So, trouble with the pipes is nothing new to the local residents.
As testament to my own struggle with the waterworks, there is now a neat tarmac scar running down the middle of our road. To the casual observer, it joins several other patchwork efforts scattered over the town’s landscape but to Scott Greenwood and me it represents something of a triumph.
All scars tell a story – often of wars lost and battles won. Of frantic trips to casualty or faded childhood mementos accrued in the playground years before soft landings became a health and safety directive. But I look at my sewerage scar and I see a perfectly executed operation, with stitching worthy of the very best surgeon.
In the medieval body politic that is Hastings, there was always a chance of an unforeseen crisis. As his mini-digger went in, Scott was at pains to point out that we could uncover something ‘nasty’. Or worse, ‘interesting’. An interred body, or maybe a decrepit pot that would involve years of investigations and a team of specialists, hell-bent on denying me a kitchen sink and neighbours who would talk to me.
Mercifully, we got off lightly – or Scott-free, as I prefer to call it.
Next Week: VG Lee for MP…
William Gant, the borough surveyor, was instructed to produce the first-ever, large-scale maps of the town (it took him three years) and by the time his arduous task had drawn to a close, a new sixmillion- gallon reservoir had been built on three acres of land leased from Sarah, Countess Waldegrave.
The end result was a 470-yardlong, six-inch pipeline connected to the two existing reservoirs: for reasons known only to those around at the time, it became known as the Spoon. This early Victorian initiative served the town until the end of the First World War, when the council was forced to raise the height of the reservoir and double its capacity to allow for the burgeoning seaside visitors.
Coincidentally, neighbouring St Leonards ignored the calls for improvements and 20 years later had to merge with Hastings to avoid a public catastrophe. So, trouble with the pipes is nothing new to the local residents.
As testament to my own struggle with the waterworks, there is now a neat tarmac scar running down the middle of our road. To the casual observer, it joins several other patchwork efforts scattered over the town’s landscape but to Scott Greenwood and me it represents something of a triumph.
In the medieval body politic that is Hastings, there was always a chance of an unforeseen crisis. As his mini-digger went in, Scott was at pains to point out that we could uncover something ‘nasty’. Or worse, ‘interesting’. An interred body, or maybe a decrepit pot that would involve years of investigations and a team of specialists, hell-bent on denying me a kitchen sink and neighbours who would talk to me.
Mercifully, we got off lightly – or Scott-free, as I prefer to call it.
Next Week: VG Lee for MP…