I wish I was at Glastonbury …

The Glastonbury Festival is all over the media this weekend and the images have triggered my own memories of visits in 2009 and 2010.   There was the music, of course.  Not just the headline acts – Neil Young, Blur, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder and more – but also the unexpected pleasures on the smaller stages.  Then there was the variety of exotic food outlets, and the pleasures of just sitting in the sun soaking up the atmosphere.

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Edward reading the Sunday paper in the enormous shanty town of tents at Glastonbury in 2010.

One of the memories dovetails very neatly with the themes of some of my recent posts – about the struggles of John Snow and others to provide London with safe drinking water.   Glastonbury is an enormous temporary town, the size of Sunderland, yet with the most basic plumbing and sanitation.   For four days or so, we are plunged back into the type of city that John Snow would have known.  A city where water has to be carried from standpipes (wells in Victorian London), where water is only warm enough to shave with if you have a stove to heat it.  And, most pertinently, there is only the most basic sanitation.  The toilets at Glastonbury are notorious although, probably, no smellier than the average London street in John Snow’s era.  The biggest differences are that we have, thanks to John Snow and other from that era, made the link between foul water and disease, and that our noses are more finely attuned to the smells.

Another strong memory of Glastonbury 2010 is persuading my family to watch Dizzee Rascal rather than the then barely-known Mumford and Sons, tonight’s Pyramid Stage headliners.  I’ve never been forgiven for that.

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A forest of legs in front of the West Holt Stage, awaiting Dr John’s set in 2010.

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The crowd in front of the Pyramid Stage for Tom Jones’ set in 2009.   Glastonbury Tor is just visible in the distance.

A drink of water with John Snow

I’m in a pub in Soho on a humid Friday afternoon with a glass of water on the table in front of me.  Water, rather than beer, seemed appropriate in light of the story that I am about to tell.   This is the John Snow pub, an old-fashioned London boozer with dark wood fittings, a Lino floor and just half a dozen or so customers quietly drinking.  These are not part of the tourist hordes which I had pushed through on my way here from Oxford Circus station and who were milling along Regents Street and Carnaby Street but (I’m guessing) office workers on their lunchtime breaks.

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My glass of water in the John Snow pub in Broadwick Street, Soho, London.

The relevance of this location to a blog entitled Microscopes and Monsters lies partly with the pub’s namesake and partly with a pump on the opposite corner from the pub.  This looks, from afar, like many of the other reminders of bygone eras that are scattered around London’s streets save for one thing: this pump does not have a handle.

Back in the middle of the nineteenth century, this area of Soho was hit by one of many outbreaks of cholera that were ravaging London at the time.  John Snow was a doctor working in this part of London who was trying to combat the disease.  This was, remember, some 30 years before Pasteur and Koch finally identified bacteria as the causal agents – microscopic monsters, in other words – in diseases such as cholera.  John Snow had, as a result, little evidence to help him except for his observation that this particular cluster of incidents of cholera were clustered around one particular pump on Broad (now Broadwick) Street.  Maybe, he reasoned, this was no coincidence.  Maybe a simple measure such as removing the handle of the pump would stem the tide of the disease in this part of London.

Now we know that there is a link between contaminated water and disease this all sounds self-evidently rational, but Snow was taking a step into the unknown with no more than circumstantial evidence with which to justify himself.  The locals would have seen him less of a saviour and more of a nuisance, necessitating a longer walk to bring their water home.  Yet it was a hunch which proved right, with the number of cholera cases falling in the period immediately following the handle’s removal.  And, in due course, a crack in the wall of a nearby cess pit was identified as the source of the contamination in the well.

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The cool, dark, quietness inside the John Snow pub created an almost sepulchral atmosphere.  Sipping from a glass of clean water here takes on an almost Eucharistic purpose, reminding me of the contribution that John Snow and others made in the middle of the nineteenth century and which we take for granted today.  I emptied my glass and picked up my bag. I have one more destination on this brief pilgrimage to London before the day is over …