Selsley Common, Woodchester
August 12, 1842/2020
The Plug Riots they were called. Riots don’t tend to have such interesting names anymore, or perhaps that’s just romanticism for a time past.
Bristolians, in 1831, had taken to the streets around Queen Square, at the Harbour side, demanding that all those with property could vote. The result of a growing working class who lived in urban squalor demanding the right to choose who represents them. The state quelled this with brute force, (something it now sub-contracts to the best tender) allowing any citizen to volunteer in the act. As Brunel’s bridge sits high on the Avon, he himself, sat high on the power given to him as a bludgeon boy – volunteer special constable. The dragoon guards stormed; the custom house burnt.
It was from this city, that still struggles to accept its history, that I set-off on the already hot morning of August 12 2020, following a route through many separate histories.
The first common of the day was Sodbury Common, then on to Alderley and Newark Park just above Wotton-on-Edge, (oh how I climbed up that hill) maintained on the money of the previous owner, a Sarah Clutterbuck who received compensation for 12 enslaved people in Jamaica. That money now seemingly being spent on the rebuilding of stone walls around the estate. I’m not the only one romantic for a time past it seems. With the wealth staying well and truly local – repatriations for the slave trade seem a long way off. Through Bagpath, where the population of 1000 in the Norman era now dwindles at 100, but with awfully nice bus stops.
As welcome as gusts of dry wind on the top of the Cotswolds are, the hot air envelopes me as I weave through the county’s little valleys. Kingscote, an old Roman town seemed idyllic but I was too keen to get to Woodchester to stop and ponder. Finally, I intersected the Old Bristol Road and descended into the (what I had been pre-warned as a quaint) market town of Nailsworth. 11.00 was not far away, but I still had to cycle along the Nailsworth stream to reach our muster point at The Ram at Woodchester.
Reaching the Ram ravenous, I unpacked what had now become a very sweaty bagel, to eat with hands that themselves were dripping. The Ram was certainly closed but the four of us meeting, were eager to open themselves up to a day of remembrance, inspiration and learning.
The first decision of the day is where to park the bike; years of honing diplomatic relations with publicans see us park the bike away from the pub to ensure no unnecessary conflict. There is confusion among the group, who’s the royalty amongst us, is there a spy, or have these tropical nights been giving us the slide?
As we quickly ascend in altitude and hysteria, Stuart, our principal guide, informs us why we are standing where we are. In 1839, the locals of these parts had been summoned to gather upon Rodborough Common. 5000 people had gathered to demand that the 6 key points of the People’s Charter were adopted by the government; a petition had been signed by 3 million workers.
Three years later – 148 years ago to the day – the Plug Riots occurred; a strike for the vote …Or was it an economic pursuit calling for the reversal of wage cuts rather for suffrage?
To contemplate this detail is to distract from the collective nature of the general strike. The sheer simplicity of being able to have solidarity with another, regardless of where they are in the country is something we can only imagine in what feels like a divided age.
This 1839 gathering, on a hill in the Cotswolds, would link, three years later, with the energy of half a million strikers in the mills and mines in other parts of the country, that these Gloucestershire folk were hardly likely to have visited (like myself).
Before we summited the common, we took a water break at a muddy spring, which we would come across further down in the valley and drink from. At the source we re-enacted the Newport Rising, the last armed insurrection in the UK that took place 3 years before the Plug Riots. An authoritarian rather than democratic vote gave Keith a badge of honour, much like the government that had quashed the rising.
This led me to question: Why were these riots quelled with such force throughout the country, why did property stop becoming a determining factor for men’s right to vote only in 1918, why has parliament not been able to have proper oversight over coronavirus legislation? In much the same way that the government has never seen a virus take a hold, they certainly had never seen such mass movement of people before.
The blisteringly surreal summer of 2020, brought a new mass movement, Black Lives Matter. Started in the US, it has forced this country to face up to the real issue that we exported systemically racial ideas of power to the US. In seeking to acknowledge those in the UK, who have not been remembered due to the colour of their skin, we looked back at black members of the Chartist movement, who, too, suffered racial oppression. Robert introduced to us the life of William Cuffay.
We sat on the common as Robert with his brown hat invited us into the life of Mr Cuffay. Not the tallest of lads, but a damn fine tailor who “went in strongly for the individual rights of the working men”. In 1848 ‘the year of decision’ Cuffay organised the Chartist Rally at Kensington Common. Later a spy had been planted in the Ulterior Committee that was set up to campaign for the charter. This committee, planned to set fire to a building to indicate the start of the uprising, and Cuffary was arrested although not being the main agitator.
Despite demanding a jury of working, rather than middle class, peers, he was convicted for levying war on the queen. He was sentenced to transportation to Tasmania, a journey that would last 103 days, landing in 1849. There, after becoming parted in 1856 continued to advocate for the rights of workers. He died in July 1870.
After such an enthralling recounting of his life, we all took the knee for 9 minutes, as a mark of respect to the Black Lives that died at the hands of the state. The 9 minutes being the amount of time that the police officer knelt on the neck of George Floyd that killed him. A card was produced with a beautiful painting of Cuffay gathered around with his comrades. Having written our thoughts on his life, the card was sent to the Medway Trades Council.
What strikes me now is the urban-rural divide. Cuffay started in London whilst the martyrs of the insurrection grew up in the Valleys. Those communities no longer resemble what they used to and I wonder whether they resent each other now. The solidarity then at Selsley Common, London, South Wales, the North all in common, understood that no one should be oppressed by those who saw themselves being born to rule.
The walk continued along the common to an iron age burial mound. We pause now to remember a fallen comrade, Alan Bland. Surely ‘The raconteur’ would have had six pints, but we decide not to pour the age-old stout into the mound today. Instead, it’s spirit that fills the bodies on the common, the blistering heat being the pleasant intensity that I imagine him to be.
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