Paige on the Old English meaning of the name, the buried Westbourne, a medieval legend marked citation needed and the habit of a rich district to hide its history under its shopping
Saturday 10 October, 8.00am, a flat a short walk from Brompton Road, a pot of Earl Grey served in a cup that has outlived three landlords and a notebook headed WHERE DID THE NAME COME FROM, which is the question I ask of everything, including breakfast.
Dear Diary. My name is Paige, I live in Knightsbridge, and I collect London’s stories the way other people collect porcelain: carefully, with an eye for the chip. Myth, legend and lore are my passions, and I am particularly fond of the stories that people tell about a place when they have forgotten why it exists. Knightsbridge is rich in forgetting. So this morning I opened an encyclopedia entry and a notebook, and I decided to find out what the name really means.
The Young Men Of The Bridge
The Wikipedia entry on Knightsbridge says the name is Old English, meaning roughly the bridge of the young men or retainers, from cniht, meaning youth, and brycg, meaning bridge. It adds that before the Norman Conquest, cniht meant a youth and not a mounted warrior, which spoils the picture of two armoured knights glaring at one another across a plank. Early spellings include Cnihtebricge from around 1050. The bridge, it says, stood where an old western road crossed the River Westbourne. It also notes a possible alternative explanation, linking the name to a cnihtengild, a guild of cnihtas in eleventh-century London, whose jurisdiction may have reached Knightsbridge.
I read that twice. I had always imagined the district was named for knights, being the sort of person who prefers the more romantic version of any story. The truth, if the entry is right, is that it was named for the lads. A bridge of the lads. It makes the whole of Brompton Road sound like a youth club.
The Buried River
The entry on the River Westbourne is the other half of the story. The Knightsbridge page describes the river as now underground, and I find that perfect. A river that made a name, then vanished beneath the pavement, leaving only the name behind. That is the story of London in a sentence. The city keeps its rivers the way it keeps its secrets, in pipes, with a very good lid on them.
I do not have more detail on the river than those two pages give me, and I will not pretend to a walk along its course. I would be delighted if a reader could tell me where it surfaces. I am told the river can still be heard in certain drains after heavy rain. I choose to believe this and I am aware it is not a source.
A Legend With A Warning Label
The Knightsbridge entry also records that citizens of London are said to have met Matilda of England at Knight’s Bridge in 1141. The claim is marked citation needed on the page. I love a legend that arrives with its own warning label. It is exactly how I would like every story in London to be sold, with a small sign that says: this may not be true, but isn’t it nice.
I mention it in a spirit of honest appreciation, not of belief. A legend is not a lie. It is a story that has outgrown its evidence and still has its uses. If the meeting happened, it was a minor moment in a civil war that decided who would be queen. If it did not, it is a pleasant picture of a bridge, a river and a crowd of anxious Londoners in their best cloaks.
The Highwaymen
The same entry observes that for centuries the area was a haunt of highwaymen, robbers and cutthroats targeting travellers on the western road out of London. I find this the most satisfying fact of the morning, since it means that Knightsbridge has been a place where people are relieved of their money for at least a thousand years. The method has become more sophisticated. The destination has not changed.
My colleagues at prat.uk have been mapping the modern version of the phenomenon for years, with particular attention to the quiet cost of living in an expensive postcode. Their portrait Knightsbridge, where London spends quietly but judges loudly is the sharpest I have read, and I recommend it to anyone who lives here and wishes to be reminded of it. A companion piece, Knightsbridge, where bags have bodyguards, notes that a handbag in this district is a thing of such value that it requires an escort. I cannot confirm this. I can only report that mine has no escort and has survived.
The Department Store
No entry about Knightsbridge is complete without a mention of its most famous resident, the department store on Brompton Road. The entry I read names it as an exclusive department store, and I will not add detail about its history that I cannot source. My colleagues have a piece called Harrods, London sells everything, including the improbable, which I think captures the place accurately.
The store, for what it is worth, is part of the folklore of the district: the tales of unusual purchases, the green bags, the doormen who seem to be carved from the same stone as the building. I leave the facts to the historians and the legends to myself.
What I Take From It
I take three things. First, that a name can be older than the story we tell about it. Second, that a river can disappear and still leave a place named after it. Third, that the most useful thing a diarist can do is write down what she does not know. The Westbourne is underground. The bridge is gone. The lads, I assume, are long since dispersed. And yet here I am, with a cup of tea, in a street named after all three.
Closing Entry
I file for prat.uk and for Bohiney Magazine, and my readers in America ask whether London has real legends or only the tall-story kind. I tell them it has both, usually in the same pub. For a guide to the comic tradition that keeps all this lively, my page on London satire is a fine place to begin, and for a smile with the second cup, the Daily Mash is a loyal friend. The tea has gone cold and the street outside is waking up. Goodnight, Diary, or good morning. Mind the underground river.
SOURCE: bohiney.com