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Caught between London’s East End and a treacherous coastline, this much maligned terrain has a noble history of eccentrics and dissenters – and buildings to match
Casually derided for its loud mouth, bad taste and louche, estuarine ways, Essex is the whipping boy of England. Unlike Kent, the garden of England, and Surrey, its patio, Essex is not softened by ersatz pastoralism or laced with gin-and-Jag smugness. Charles Dickens once described Chelmsford, its administrative capital, as “the dullest and most stupid spot on the face of the earth”.
Pinioned by water on one side and London on the other, Essex has a sense of being perpetually under siege from both the sea and the elephantine presence of the metropolis, “a seeping inkblot on the horizon” that over time has greedily gobbled up extremities such as Ilford and Romford. Threats of inundation and invasion have always weighed heavily on the Essex mind, most recently articulated by an unflinching urge to uncouple from Europe. Parsed and pored over by politicians, psephologists and the press, Essex is stubbornly unafraid to make manifest its discontent and go its own cussed way. Continue reading...