Monday, 29 August 2016

The beret / Le béret / Boina.

A beret is a soft, round, flat-crowned hat, usually of woven, hand-knitted wool, crocheted cotton, wool felt, or acrylic fibre.

Mass production began in 19th century France and Spain, countries with which it remains associated. Berets are worn as part of the uniform of many military and police units worldwide, as well as by other organisations.

Archaeology and art history indicate that headgear similar to the modern beret has been worn since the Bronze Age across Northern Europe and as far south as ancient Crete and Italy, where it was worn by the Minoans, Etruscans and Romans. Such headgear has been popular among the nobility and artists across Europe throughout modern history.

The Basque style beret was the traditional headgear of Aragonese and Navarrian shepherds from the Ansó and Roncal valleys of the Pyrenees, a mountain range that divides Southern France from northern Spain. The commercial production of Basque-style berets began in the 17th century in the Oloron-Sainte-Marie area of Southern France. Originally a local craft, beret-making became industrialised in the 19th century. The first factory, Beatex-Laulhere, claims production records dating back to 1810. By the 1920s, berets were associated with the working classes in a part of France and Spain and by 1928 more than 20 French factories and some Spanish and Italian factories produced millions of berets.

In Western fashion, men and women have worn the beret since the 1920s as sportswear and later as a fashion statement.

Military berets were first adopted by the French Chasseurs Alpins in 1889. After seeing these during the First World War, British General Hugh Elles proposed the beret for use by the newly formed Royal Tank Regiment, which needed headgear that would stay on while climbing in and out of the small hatches of tanks. They were approved for use by King George V in 1924.[6] The black RTR beret was made famous by Field Marshal Montgomery in the Second World War.

The beret fits snugly around the head, and can be "shaped" in a variety of ways – in the Americas it is commonly worn pushed to one side. In Central and South America, local custom usually prescribes the manner of wearing the beret; there is no universal rule and older gentlemen usually wear it squared on the head, jutting forward. It can be worn by both men and women.

Military uniform berets feature a headband or sweatband attached to the wool, made either from leather, silk or cotton ribbon, sometimes with a drawstring allowing the wearer to tighten the hat. The drawstrings are, according to custom, either tied and cut off or tucked in or else left to dangle. The beret is often adorned with a cap badge, either in cloth or metal. Some berets have a piece of buckram or other stiffener in the position where the badge is intended to be worn.

Berets are not usually lined, but many are partially lined with silk or satin. In military berets, the headband is worn on the outside; military berets often have external sweatbands of leather, pleather or ribbon. The traditional beret (also worn by selected military units, such as the Belgian Chasseurs Ardennais or the French Chasseurs Alpins), usually has the "sweatband" folded inwardly. In such a case, these berets have only an additional inch or so of the same woollen material designed to be folded inwardly.

Newer beret styles made of Polar fleece are also popular.

Basque Country

Berets came to be popularised across Europe and other parts of the world as typical Basque headgear, as reflected in their name in several languages (e.g. béret basque in French; Baskenmütze in German; Basco in Italian; or baskeri in Finnish), while the Basques themselves use the words txapela or boneta. They are very popular and common in the Basque Country. The colours adopted for folk costumes varied by region and purpose: black and blue are worn more frequently than red and white, which are usually used at local festivities. The people of Aragon adopted red berets while the black beret became the common headgear of workers in France and Spain.

A big commemorative black beret is the usual trophy in sport or bertso competitions, including Basque rural sports, the Basque portions of the Tour de France, and the Vuelta Ciclista al Pais Vasco. It may bear sewn ornamental references to the achievement or contest.


The black beret was once considered the national cap of France in Anglo-Saxon countries and is part of the stereotypical image of the Onion Johnny. It is no longer as widely worn as it once was, but it remains a strong sign of local identity in the southwest of France. When French people want to picture themselves as "the typical average Frenchman" in France or in a foreign country, they often use this stereotype from Anglo-Saxon countries. There are today, three manufacturers in France. Laulhère (who acquired the formerly oldest manufacturer, Blancq-Olibet, in February 2014 has been making bérets since 1840. Boneteria Auloronesa is a small artisan French beret manufacturer in the Béarnaise town of Oloron Sainte Marie, and Le Béret Français is another artisan béret maker in the Béarnaise village of Laàs. The beret still remains a strong symbol of the unique identity of southwestern France and is worn while celebrating traditional events.


In Spain, depending upon the region, the beret is usually known as the boina. They were once common men's headwear across the cooler north of the country, in regions of Aragon, Navarre, the Basque Country, Cantabria, Asturias and Galicia and nearby areas.


There are several Scottish variants of the beret, notably the Scottish bonnet or Bluebonnet (originally bonaid in Gaelic), whose ribbon cockade and feathers identify the wearer’s clan and rank. It's considered a symbol of Scottish patriotism. Other Scottish types include the tam-o'-shanter (named by Robert Burns after a character in one of his poems) and the striped Kilmarnock cap, both of which feature a large pompom in the centre.

As uniform headgear

The beret's practicality has long made it an item of military and other uniform clothing. Among a few well known historic examples are the Scottish soldiers, who wore the blue bonnet in the 17th and 18th centuries, the Volontaires Cantabres, a French force raised in the Basque country in the 1740s to the 1760s, who also wore a blue beret, and the Carlist rebels, with their red berets, in 1830s Spain. In World War Two, British officer Bernard Montgomery ("Monty") took to wearing a black beret given to him by a corporal, and it became his trademark. In the 1950s the U.S. Army's newly conceived Special Forces units began to wear a green beret as headgear, following the custom of the British Royal Marines, which was officially adopted in 1961 with such units becoming known as the "Green Berets", and additional specialised forces in the Army, U.S. Air Force and other services also adopted berets as distinctive headgear.

Police and Paramilitary forces of some countries also wear the Beret as their uniform headgear.

In fashion and culture

The beret is part of the long-standing stereotype of the intellectual, film director, artist, "hipster", poet, bohemain and beatnik. The painter Rembrandt and the composer Richard Wagner, among others, wore berets. In the United States and Britain, the middle of the 20th century saw an explosion of berets in women's fashion. In the latter part of the 20th century, the beret was adopted by the Chinese both as a fashion statement and for its political undertones. Berets were also worn by bebop and jazz musicians like Dizzy Gillespie, Gene Krupa, Wardell Gray and Thelonious Monk.

As a revolutionary symbol

In the 1960s several activist groups adopted the black beret. These include the Provisional Irish Republican Army (PIRA), the ETA guerrillas (who wore black berets over hoods in public appearances), the Black Panther Party of the United States, formed in 1966, and the "Black Beret Cadre" (a similar Black Power organisation in Bermuda). In addition, the Brown Berets were a Chicano organisation formed in 1967. The Young Lords Party, a Latino revolutionary organisation in the United States in the 1960s and 1970s, also wore berets, as did the Guardian Angels unarmed anti-crime citizen patrol units originated by Curtis Sliwa in New York City in the 1970s to patrol the streets and subways to discourage crime (red berets and matching shirts).

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

The Modern Eton College

New Eton head to put emphasis on pupils' emotional intelligence
School’s youngest headmaster signals change in tone and will take holistic approach to focus on happiness and mental health rather than elitism

Sally Weale Education correspondent
Wednesday 21 October 2015 09.29 BST

The new headmaster of Eton College wants to develop emotional intelligence in his pupils and provide them with a “holistic, rounded” education.

Simon Henderson, who took over the headship of the top public school at the beginning of this term, is attempting to signal a change of tone at Eton – a byword for privilege, power and considerable wealth.

“The whole point of school is to prepare young people for happiness and success in their personal lives and working lives,” Henderson told the Guardian.

“There’s more awareness of emotional intelligence and of mental health, of young people building confidence and resilience to manage themselves in a fast-changing, challenging environment,” he said.

The move is the latest attempt by private schools to reduce some of the stresses pupils can find themselves in in highly competitive environments. Cheltenham Ladies’ College announced in the summer that it was bringing in meditation and curbing homework demands.

Henderson said that while excellent academic standards were important, he wanted Eton College – which has educated 19 British prime ministers, including the present incumbent, as well as countless members of the establishment over generations – to be innovative, forward thinking, outward looking and open.

“Any self-respecting institution should be reflecting from time to time on things it does,” he said. “The best traditions should stand up to modern scrutiny. This is about incremental change.”

Henderson, who went to Winchester and studied history at Brasenose College, Oxford, wants more bursaries for boys from disadvantaged backgrounds, so that anyone with the necessary talent can be financially supported at the £35,000-a-year school.

Currently, Eton spends £6.5m on means-tested bursaries; 73 of the 1,300 pupils have their entire fees paid by Eton, while a further 270 receive significant financial support, and have on average two-thirds of their fees paid for them.

Among those who have recently benefited from a full scholarship, Henderson said, is Andrew Isama, a former pupil at Wayne Rooney’s old school in Croxteth, Liverpool, who is now on his gap year after sixth-form studies at Eton. “We want talented boys to be able to come to Eton whatever their financial circumstances,” Henderson insists.

At 39, Henderson is the youngest Eton headmaster. Formerly head of Bradfield co-educational college in Berkshire, he was encouraged to apply for the job, vacated by Tony Little, after a period at Eton as head of history from 2001-2009.

For his interview with the Guardian, Henderson is trying his best to defy expectations. Rather than the formal black gown usually worn by Eton beaks, he wore a smart but casual felted blue suit with striped shirt and red tie. He was speaking in the brand new Tony Little Centre for Innovation and Research, which, with its sleek white walls and designer chairs, would not look out of place in a smart inner-city academy.

Traditions remain, however, and at the end of the interview boys emerge from their lessons dressed in their traditional tailcoats, waistcoats and formal striped trousers. Despite reports, there are no current plans to scrap the distinctive uniform.

Henderson, a father of four small children aged seven, five, three and two, clearly wishes to be seen as a modernising headmaster. That was his pitch for the job, which he finally secured after four interviews.

He talks energetically about technology transforming teaching, about the importance of the creative arts in developing life skills, about partnerships beyond the school, opening up facilities, service and being socially responsible. He said he wants better access to sports for all boys at Eton – not just those at the top of their game.

His references are not grand or literary – he mentions former England rugby coach Clive Woodward’s 2004 autobiography Winning! and his theory of “critical non-essentials”. And at an assembly at Holyport College – the boarding free school Eton sponsors down the road – about success, determination and team work. Incy Wincy Spider and Bob the Builder are used to make his points.

Henderson acknowledges that the vast majority of pupils will leave Eton with outstanding results and go on to universities such as Oxford, Cambridge, and further afield in the US. What’s more important to him, he says, are the values they leave with.

He wants them to be “confident without being arrogant”, to have integrity, moral courage, resilience and perseverance to overcome obstacles so as to make “a really positive contribution” to wider society.

It’s a long way from the perceptions held by many of Eton, not helped by recent accounts of hedonistic behaviour by wealthy Old Etonians who party at Oxford in clubs such as the Bullingdon and the Piers Gaveston then go on to dominate British political life.

Henderson accepts that the school is a political football, “particularly at the moment as the prime minister is from Eton”.

“I understand that people will have particular perceptions of Eton,” he says. “They are entitled to their opinion. There’s no point us being defensive about it. The responsibility sits with me and Eton as an institution to try and show people what I regard as the real Eton.

“Utimately it’s a school,” says Henderson. “It’s a school full of teenage boys and teenage boys are teenage boys.”

Is this the end for tailcoats at Eton College?
Eton’s new (and youngest-ever) headmaster Simon Henderson wants more bursaries, 'real world’ values – and might even bin the tailcoats
By Peter Stanford7:00AM BST 10 Oct 2015

Simon Henderson greets me with an apology. Eton’s new headmaster – at 39 the youngest ever – says he can’t welcome me into his office because he hasn’t got one yet.
It is not, however, a sign that he’s struggling to find his feet at Britain’s most famous public school, alma mater to 19 prime ministers, including the incumbent, and many others now at the pinnacle of public life.
Quite the opposite. Henderson is relocating the head’s study from its traditional spot in a quiet corner of an ancient quad to a central new location where the 1,300 pupils mill about between lessons. “I want to be in the middle of the passing traffic of boys,” he tells me.
That Henderson intends to shake things up a little is clear: updating traditions – possibly even the uniform, with its distinctive tailcoats and “spongebag” trousers – and making more places available to pupils for whom the yearly fees of £35,000 a year are out of reach, are a priority.
He is committed to maintaining excellence but says a '“string of A*s” is not a guarantee of future happiness and wants his charges to understand that. Ultimately, his mission is to use the school’s resources and status to make a wider “forward-looking” contribution to British education policy.
"Schools are about people, and should be judged by the quality of the human relationships within them."
But how will this contribution be greeted? The over-representation of Old Etonians in the Cabinet and the House of Commons of late has made the school something of a political football.
Stories of alleged unsavoury high jinks on the part of OEs in various exclusive Oxford university clubs such as the Bullingdon and the Piers Gaveston have created an impression that it exists in a parallel universe with rules of its own.
“I’m not going to make any political comments,” Henderson replies diplomatically. “We live in a democracy and everyone can have their opinion, but I do understand that people will have their perceptions of Eton.” In challenging them he intends to do more listening than lecturing.
“In building further on the partnerships with state schools that Eton already has we will have as much to learn, if not more, than we have to give. But I’m struck by what a forward‑thinking place Eton is trying to be.”
By appointing Henderson, the school governors couldn’t have given a clearer signal that they recognised the need for change.

He is, he says, “a normal sort of guy”, with an accent that is hard to place. Three of his children – aged seven, five and three – attend local schools. His wife, Ali, a civil servant and former adviser to Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, today is looking after their youngest, aged 2, in the headmaster’s lodgings on site.
In a school where the boys still wear Victorian tailcoats and white dickey bows to lessons, their head is instead sporting what he calls “teacher casual” – a linen jacket and chino-like trousers. He dons a tie for the photographs but discards it immediately after.
Will he be extending that privilege to the 1,300 pupils? “Tradition is important here,” he replies cautiously, “and the uniform is a physical connection with that tradition. However, Eton hasn’t survived since 1440 by relying on tradition alone. It has constantly reinvented itself.” So is he hinting that something a little more 21st century might be on the cards?
“I’m not getting rid of the uniform this week,” he replies with an expression that suggests “watch this space”. He has perfected the knack of embodying the spirit of change, without actually promising anything concrete.
And what about co-ed? “My previous school” – he was head of Bradfield College in Berkshire for four years – “was co-educational. What makes a good school isn’t about whether it is all-boys or co-educational.” That, at least, sounds like a resolute “no”.
"It was an unexpected challenge when it came but one that I felt ultimately I couldn’t turn down."
Henderson was “encouraged to apply” for the vacancy at Eton, having previously spent eight years here as head of history, before decamping to Sherborne en route to Bradfield.
“It was an unexpected challenge when it came but one that I felt ultimately I couldn’t turn down,” he says.
And though his own schooling was solidly in the private sector – his South African-raised lawyer father and doctor mother sent him first to a local prep school near the family home in Kent, and then to Winchester – Henderson has a greater first-hand knowledge of other types of school than most of his illustrious predecessors.
A career in teaching was already in his sights when reading history at Brasenose College, Oxford. In his gap year he went to South Africa and taught in a school on the outskirts of Johannesburg. “I’d already thought I might want to teach, but it was my time there that inspired me.”
After a brief and unhappy flirtation with the City, he opted for a PGCE, the postgraduate teaching training qualification that is not as widespread in the private as in the state sector. His first job was teaching history at a comprehensive, Windsor Boys, between 1999 and 2001. A conscious choice of a state school? “At that stage, it was. I thought it was important to be in the state sector and get a wide experience, particularly given my own background.”
His next move was to Eton. Reverting to type? “I want to educate children and I think that my passion is educating young people whatever their background. That has always been my driver, rather than the particular type of school.”

That, surely, is to gloss over the substantial differences between state and private schools in terms of class size, resources and social mix. Educationalists, for example, refer to an “Eton effect” whereby privately educated pupils emerge from their schools with an inbuilt confidence.
“We take the view that young people learn as much, if not more, from each other as from their teachers and as much, if not more, outside the classroom as within it,” he replies. “This all breeds confidence.
However, I think it would be a big generalisation to say that privately educated pupils leave school with much more confidence than their state peers. That ethos of being confident without being arrogant, of having high expectations, being willing to challenge yourself is key at Eton, but is not exclusive to us, or to private schools.”
It is a reasonable defence, but I wonder how easy it is going to be to disarm the school’s detractors when he starts offering his thoughts on improving the nation’s schools.
"Young people learn as much, if not more, from each other as from their teachers and as much, if not more, outside the classroom as within it."
“Clearly at Eton we are fortunate in the resources, and we don’t have some of the challenges that teachers face in other schools. But ultimately schools are about people, and should be judged by the quality of the human relationships within them.”
And anyway, he adds, that picture of competitiveness, even hostility, between private and state sectors is misleading. “I have been a governor of several state schools and have always found that similarities between pupils and between teachers are far greater than their differences.”
High on Henderson’s agenda are more bursaries – “a top priority”. Currently some £6.5  million per year is spent on 73 pupils who pay no fees at all, and 270 who “have significant levels of financial support”. But what will this charismatic head be arguing for beyond the walls of the school?
Like his predecessor, Tony Little, he is not a fan of the exam and league table culture heavily promoted by Michael Gove when in office, and which still exerts such a steely grip on school timetables.
“While league tables show one important feature of a school – the examination results – they do not demonstrate the quality of the all-round education. And they tend not to take into account the academic profile of the intake and so do not usually demonstrate the progress made by pupils,” he explains.

Eton opts out of the league tables that are published immediately after the release of results in August – on the grounds that results change following re-marks. It is one policy that Henderson has no intention of reforming.
“Of course, exam results are the currency that the world uses, rightly or wrongly. If, as a school, you have a strong exam profile, that opens doors to the future for your pupils.”
But there is, he acknowledges, a cost. “How happy and successful your pupils are in their personal and professional life when they walk out of those doors depends on a much broader range of things than exam results. We must promote creativity. This country needs young people who have ideas for themselves and that must be encouraged in the curriculum.”
He quotes the benefits of drama, art and music – all marginalised in recent years by policymakers as non-“core” subjects and, according to teaching unions, starved of resources – as key. Pushing youngsters to strive solely for strings of A*s is a mistake, he argues.
"Exams don’t reflect work in the real world. You work with other people. You collaborate. You discuss."
“When I am going about my daily work at no point am I going to be asked to sit in silence in a room for two hours and write everything I know about a topic without consulting other people, or without the use of notes.
"Exams don’t reflect work in the real world. You work with other people. You collaborate. You discuss. The types of real-world skills required are not necessarily what is tested in exams.”
He is also determined to promote teachers and teaching as a career, believing that the profession deserves to be held in greater esteem. Even today, precious few Oxbridge graduates choose, as he did in 1998, to opt for teacher-training.

With some 20 or even 30 years ahead of him as Eton headmaster, Simon Henderson will have plenty of time to make a distinctive contribution to education debates. Does he worry as the new broom about getting people’s backs up? “Maybe I’m not everyone’s perception of what the Eton headmaster would be,” he concedes, “but I am the one they have got.”

Eton and the making of a modern elite

The world’s most famous school aspires to become an agent of social change; but, as old boy Christopher de Bellaigue learns when he goes back, it is also an increasingly effective way for the global elite to give its offspring an expensive leg up in life

Christopher de Bellaigue | August/September 2016

One of Simon Henderson’s first decisions after taking over last summer as headmaster of Eton College was to move his office out of the labyrinthine, late-medieval centre of the school and into a corporate bunker that has been appended (“insensitively”, as an architectural historian might say) to a Victorian teaching block. Here, in classless, optimistic tones, Henderson lays out a vision of a formerly Olympian institution becoming a mirror of modern society, diversifying its intake so that anyone “from a poor boy at a primary school in the north of England to one from a great fee-paying prep school in the south” can aspire to be educated there (so long as he’s a he, of course), joyfully sharing expertise, teachers and facilities with the state sector – in short, striving “to be relevant and to contribute”. His aspiration that Eton should become an agent of social change is not one that many of his 70 predecessors in the job over the past six centuries would have shared; and it is somehow no surprise to hear that he has incurred the displeasure of some of the more traditionally minded boys by high-fiving them. What had happened, I wondered as I left the bunker, to the Eton I knew when I was a pupil in the late 1980s – a school so grand it didn’t care what anyone thought of it, a four-letter word for the Left, a source of pride for the Right, and a British brand to rival Marmite and King Arthur?

To judge from appearances in this historic little town across the Thames from Windsor Castle, which many tourists think is worth a visit between the Round Tower and Legoland, the answer is actually not a lot. Aside from the fact that there are more brown, black and Asian faces around, the boys go about in their undertakers’ uniforms of tailcoats and starched collars, as they seem to have done for centuries, learning in the old schoolrooms and depleting testosterone on the old playing fields before being locked up for the night in houses they share with 50 of their peers (each boy has his own room). As the absence of girls demonstrates, Eton considers itself exempt from the modern belief in the integration of the sexes that so many independent schools now espouse. And it remains a boarding school – a form of education which is in decline, and which some people consider a mild form of child abuse. Add to all this the statue of Henry VI, who founded the school in 1440, amid the uneven cobbles of School Yard, and the masters cycling in their gowns to their mid-morning meeting, resembling nothing so much as a synod of ravens, and you get the opposite impression to that conveyed by Henderson: one of solidity, immobility – anything but dynamism.

To the question, “which is the ‘real’ Eton?” – the laboratory for progressive ideas about social inclusion, or an annexe to Britain’s heritage industry – the answer is of course “both”.

All schools are defined by their intake, but none more so than Eton, which for hundreds of years received the pipsqueak sons of the ruling class and disgorged them to become statesmen and administrators. (Nineteen Old Etonians – OES – including David Cameron, have served as prime minister.) This has now changed, and a new admissions policy has brought in poor clever boys, foreign boys and “new money” that the school would not have welcomed in the past. A recent parent described his surprise at finding out that the commonest name at the school was Patel.

At the same time, many elements of the timeless, traditional Eton have been preserved. They’re among the reasons new parents send their sons here, along with the belief that the school will coax and push and cajole the best out of the boy – that Eton is, as the headmaster puts it, “unashamed in its pursuit of excellence”. The school aims to educate the elite, as it always has, but it has reshaped itself in order to accommodate a new elite defined by money, brains and ambition, not pedigree, titles and acres.

A delicate relationship seems likely to exist at Eton in the coming years, between deserving boys of modest background who enter the school on bursaries, often in the face of incredulity or even opposition at home, and the poised, prepared, nutritionally optimised children of the new upper class whose parents are expected to finance all this largesse – not simply by paying their fees, but also by responding to pretty much continuous appeals for money. The latest “exciting and strictly limited opportunity” is the chance to have your name inscribed on a stone around School Yard, costing £10,000 spread over four consecutive tax years.

Eton’s rich and poor coalesce and become each other’s raison d’être in the context of the school’s ambition to be “needs-blind” in the manner of Harvard – that is to say, able to offer a boy a place regardless of his parents’ ability to pay. Eton’s big plan was evoked succinctly by William Waldegrave, the provost (head of the governing body), when he told me, “what I hope is that this school will continue to produce the prime minister, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and entrepreneurs of all sorts, but that three-quarters of them will have been here on bursaries.”

Waldegrave and Henderson may be the latest advocates of Eton’s transformation, but the process began a generation ago. Over the past quarter-century many places have opened up to poorer families, with some 270 of the pupil body of 1,300 now receiving substantial or complete fees remission and the school recently taking out a £45m loan to raise this number further. The school can also draw on a very large endowment by British standards. As of August 2014 it had investment and property portfolios worth £300m and an annual income from school fees of around £45m, not to mention all the immovable assets and art collections. For all that, many more millions need to be wrung from parents and OES if the school is to become genuinely needs-blind.

As the school mediates between the aspiring rich and the deserving poor, a third group fights for survival: old “Eton” families who have been sending boys to the school for generations. This group dominated the Eton I attended in the 1980s, when the school was still a barely-selective rite of passage for the descendants of Britain’s Edwardian upper and upper-middle classes – complacent, snobby and full of surnames recognisable from the inter-war diaries of Harold Nicolson. This tribe’s representation is shrinking. The percentage of pupils at the school with an OE father went down from 60% in 1960 to 33% in 1994 to 20% now. Eton has gone from being an heirloom handed down through the generations to a revolving door.

Rainbow education

Pupils cheer during the Eton wall game, a sport unique to the college

No elite connives in its own dethroning, however, and Eton is a living illustration of the oft-forgotten truth that social mobility cuts both ways. Having striven to get their son into a school whose fabric reeks of continuity, it would not be a surprise if the new Eton families showed tenacity in trying to hang on to their new status by forming dynasties of their own. This new elite, floating on its liquid wealth, is probably better placed to preserve itself than the old, landed one. As often as not Mum is as high powered as Dad, and the progeny are primed not to rest on inherited laurels but to go out and achieve material success.

Here, in the emergence of a new upper class – more fluid, more international, and yet revelling in its association with the old, snobbish, British continuities – lies the tension at the heart of Eton’s ambition to become a meritocracy. To borrow from the Patek Philippe advert, “You never actually own a place at Eton. You merely look after it for the next generation”.

I performed badly in my entrance test to Eton and squeaked in only after my mother pleaded with the admissions tutor that her father had been at the school: in those days, Eton took care of its own. The establishment I entered in the spring of 1985 looked to me like the embodiment of continuity, but across the country, the mood was turning hostile. The immediate post-war period had witnessed three Etonian prime ministers in succession (one of whom, Harold Macmillan, named no fewer than 35 OES to serve in his government), but the squall of egalitarianism in the late 1960s, aggravated in the 1980s by Margaret Thatcher’s ethos of self-help and aspiration, loosened the school’s grip on power. In 1990, when Thatcher lost the Tory-party leadership, Douglas Hurd, who stood to succeed her, found his Eton background being used against him. “I thought I was running for leadership of the Conservative Party,” he complained, “not some demented Marxist sect.” Hurd lost the election – and the keys to 10 Downing Street – to John Major, a state-educated former insurance clerk.

Tony Blair’s New Labour administration of the late 1990s and early 2000s married Thatcher’s brassy meritocracy with a social conscience. Oxford, Cambridge and the other major universities came under pressure to admit more state-educated pupils, and private schools were told to share their facilities with publicly funded neighbours or forfeit the tax breaks to which they, as charities, were entitled. In 1999, in a clear sign that the school could no longer count on its old links to parliament, almost 700 hereditary peers (many if not most of them OES) were expelled from the House of Lords.

In any case by now Eton had read the runes. There was a feeling among masters and governors that the school needed to raise standards in order to maintain market share in the new, more meritocratic Britain – to keep feeding boys to Oxford and Cambridge; to keep producing prime ministers – and a more competitive admissions system was the key. But the school had an image problem. It was widely considered a closed shop that would favour the dim and idle viscount over the up-and-coming City trader’s brilliant, motivated son, with the result that the City trader didn’t apply. The school’s policy of allowing parents to register their sons at birth for the so-called “Eton List” exemplified the school’s built-in prejudice in favour of its own. The Eton List effectively allowed an OE to sew up a place for his son while the boy was in nappies.

In 1990 the Eton List was abolished and a decade later a uniform entrance test and interview were introduced for all would-be entrants at the age of 11, under which the children of OES enjoyed no head start over the sons of people who had not been privately educated, or, for that matter, the offspring of successful Pakistani immigrants or Malaysian electronic-chip manufacturers. In time the tests got harder, the yearly intake cleverer, and the dim, idle viscounts were turned away. (Clever, industrious viscounts continued to get in.) Aided by its proximity to London, whose attractiveness as a safe deposit box for the super-wealthy was on the rise, the school became heavily oversubscribed. (In the 1950s the school had empty places.) Each year, around five and a half boys compete for each of the 260 places on offer.

Although Eton’s internal reforms were well under way by the time Tony Little, Henderson’s predecessor, took over in 2002, this former scholar (an Etonian in the 1960s, he was the first member of his family to be educated over the age of 14) introduced them to a sceptical world. He was “more foreign secretary than home secretary”, as one master recalls, giving interviews and making friends with educational reformers in the Blair government; his railing against the “deadly cloud of class awareness” rates as one of the more unexpected interventions from an Eton headmaster.

Under Little, Eton sponsored a state boarding school up the road in Ascot and a sixth-form college in the London borough of Newham. Bursary schemes were also set up by wealthy OES. At first, bringing in boys from some of the poorest parts of Britain and overseas turned out to be surprisingly difficult; heads weren’t keen on losing their brightest boys, and parents needed some convincing that Eton wasn’t another planet. A documentary about three Eton scholarship boys that was shown on the BBC’s children’s channel in 2014 led to a spike in applications, the school’s access officer told me, “not because parents saw it, but because their sons did, and thought, ‘I’d like to do that.’” Of two former bursary boys in their 20s I recently spoke to, one has gone on to become a speech-writer for a Conservative MP and aims to go into parliament; another is a rising actor.

Changes to the admissions policy have seen the school’s non-Anglo-Saxon intake rise considerably, though for all the foreign names one sees on pigeon holes in each house, Eton remains a “British” school, and its policy of diversifying its intake seems aimed at preventing it from being captured by any particular sub-group of the global elite. Traditionalists have chafed at the more international atmosphere, however, and Little described how one “finger-jabbing” OE accused him of being a “socialist who won’t rest until you have built a mosque on the school playing fields”.

Visiting Eton this spring, I spent an hour in College Library, watching the school’s Arabic master show three 16-year-old Palestinians some medieval manuscripts that the school had recently purchased, among them a page from a ninth-century Kufic Koran. Born in refugee camps in Lebanon, these boys had been flown to Britain for interview. Come September, two of them will be in tails.

Little’s memorial at Eton is a shiny research complex, the donor-funded Tony Little Centre for Innovation and Research in Learning, which joined forces with Harvard to advance research into the adolescent brain – all synaptic pruning and neural pathways. The centre’s mission statement is a slightly laboured attempt to establish Britain’s poshest school as a public good: “we want Eton and the wider UK to be at the forefront of new developments in teaching and learning, for the benefit of all.”

The new Eton – friendly to the international plutocracy while also containing strong elements of political correctness – naturally went down badly with the established Eton families whose names adorn the war-memorial plaques and the sporting cups, and whose sons have been rejected in big numbers. In 2009, at a reunion I attended, Waldegrave delivered a speech lauding diversity of intake and beating the drum for an appeal. “They want our money,” my neighbour growled, “but not our sons.” In the main, however, the old guard seems resigned to its demotion, in part because, however exercised they are by the newcomers, many OES would be unable to afford the school even if their sons were admitted.

My father paid around £6,000 per year (around £14,500 today) for me to go to Eton in the late 1980s. The annual fees are now £34,000 ($50,000, or about £7,000 more than the average annual wage in Britain). The merely well off – the country solicitors and provincial landowners who once formed the school’s backbone – have been priced out. In the words of one OE, “many people in my circle have decided that it’s not worth it, and that a good state school will do just as well.”

To say that there is a cultural divide between the old Eton and the new one would be an understatement. Traditional parents wince as they describe corporate-hospitality tents and sushi bars being erected by brash parvenus for the Fourth of June, the school’s annual shindig (which is not, of course, held on June 4th). Back in the 1980s it was hard-boiled eggs and wine out of a box, consumed while rocking on one’s haunches on a picnic blanket.

For all the talk of 270 bursary boys and rising, furthermore, the vaunted egalitarianism of the new Eton is not always obvious. “We tried to identify the bursary boys who are with my son,” remarked a pupil’s mother, “but his year group includes two oligarchs’ sons and a family with four children all at different English boarding schools. Our suspicions fell on the parents of an Indian boy but then we bumped into them while skiing in Val d’Isère.”

Some newcomers feel that change hasn’t gone far enough. As an American mother said, “you still get some students who would have been there 100 years ago, and they’re not always the cleverest. But”, she went on with evident relief, “they don’t dominate.” Her only regret is that Little didn’t bring in girls. Henderson is rumoured to want to abolish tails, though that would face opposition from the boys, who are attached, in quite a sweet way, to Etonian traditions.

Master plan

Inevitably, the cultural divisions felt by parents are less important to the pupils, in part because the uniform has the advantage of flattening socio-economic disparities. One former bursary boy told me, “Only after I left the school, and visited my friends in the amazing flats they had been given by their parents, did I realise just how rich they were.”

With every place at Eton so keenly contested, enterprising parents sometimes try the back door. The recently retired head of admissions, Charles Milne, was visited by a famous Russian oligarch whose son had been placed on a waiting list after failing to win a place in the entrance test. “They crowded into my little office,” Milne explained, “the Russian and his two bodyguards – one of them eight foot tall. I began explaining how the system works, that other boys would have to give up their places for his son to get in.” Milne had not got far before the oligarch raised a hand to silence him. “Mr Milne,” he said, “I won’t waste your time. When you have decided what needs to be done for my son to get his place, you will tell me.” The boy ended up at another school. Another very rich foreigner, whose son had been rejected, phoned Milne to tell him he was a “fucking bastard”. It became an in-joke between Milne and Little. “When I went to see the headmaster, he would greet me, ‘hello, fucking bastard’.”

Given the intense competition to get a place, it’s no wonder that the waiting room before the test (much harder than the one I took) is like the Russian roulette scene in “The Deer Hunter”. Children sit ashen-faced while their parents confer in whispers. No one speaks to anyone else; the tension is palpable. Some boys burst into tears when they get into the interview room.

The contest isn’t simply between candidates. It’s a battle of wits between a school whose proclaimed intention is to identify deserving talent and ambition, and parents who will do everything to stack things in their child’s favour. Well-off, well-organised parents prepare their sons ruthlessly, hiring tutors, making the boys do ceaseless verbal and non-verbal reasoning tests and sending them to interview classes to learn how to be sparky and empathetic. The school is wise to these constantly evolving efforts to game the system, however, and a lot of boys who have done brilliantly in the computerised test are turned down because they aren’t “interesting” at inter­view. “If a boy makes me laugh,” says one of the school’s interviewers, “he stands a good chance of getting in.”

The battle to enter Eton is the first exchange in a relationship between parents, boys and school that is characterised by high expectations. The rich parents want their kids to flourish and go on to an excellent university, preferably Oxford or Cambridge. The school wants these parents to show their appreciation in five figures. The bursary boys need to validate the decision to give them bursaries. Meanwhile the OES bite their fingernails and hope that the 20% figure won’t go down or the fees rise even further.

The story of Eton’s reconquest of the commanding heights of Britain is one of gradual rehabilitation. With the weakening of the hard left, the prospect of private schools being abolished receded, while Eton’s efforts to present itself less as a throwback to an earlier age than a guarantor of achievement in the current one began to pay dividends. Though confessing to an Eton education remains a conversation-stopper in liberal-left north London, in general the school has become less of a lightning rod for class resentment. And over the past decade OES have become more pervasive than ever.

Back in the 1950s it was the fact of having been to Eton, more than the education you received there, which set you up for success. Now the inverse is true. The teaching is superb, the facilities unparalleled, the results impressive. This year 85 Etonians were offered places at Oxford or Cambridge. St Paul’s, Westminster and Winchester have higher Oxbridge admission rates, but then those schools always specialised in cultivating clever boys. What’s interesting about Eton is the way it changed its focus from class to brains. The school has seen off the threats to its continued relevance by taking in clever boys, and sending out cleverer young men into a world that no longer defers to inherited privilege, and prizes cleverness and ambition above all.

This shift in strategy has changed the culture of the school. The ordeal of the entrance test; the upwardly mobile parents; the fact that the boys know they got into the school on their own merits, not because their fathers are OES – all this militates against the studied unconcern, the famous “entitlement”, that was the default pose of Etonians in the 1980s. Just as it was intensely uncool to be industrious then, now the opposite is the case. “It’s the boy who doesn’t take advantage of all the opportunities at Eton who’s considered odd,” a current Etonian told me, “not those who do.”

A strong work ethic comes naturally in a school that opts in to the hardest public exams and fosters competitive relationships between pupils. One recent Etonian noticed this cultural peculiarity while observing a debate at St Paul’s, Concord, a posh American boarding school. (Eton’s debating teams often sweep the board at inter-school competitions.) “The Americans were elaborately polite to each other,” he recalled, “whereas at Eton we could be brutal, saying, ‘that’s an incredibly stupid thing to say’.”

The Fourth of June in the 1980s

More than schools with higher Oxbridge acceptance rates, Eton stresses activities outside the classroom. Drama, one of its particular strengths, is an opportunity for collective endeavour that also contributes to the legendary Etonian self-assurance. The production budget at the 400-seat Farrer Theatre is higher than that at one of Britain’s top drama schools. No wonder scouts and agents are often to be spotted there, looking for the next Eddie Redmayne – one of Eton’s many recent showbiz alumni.

The investment in a wide range of extra-curricular interests may help explain why, when it comes to success defined more broadly than through exam results, Eton comes top. According to the Sutton Trust, a charity which works to widen opportunity, the school educates just 0.04% of Britain’s secondary school population, but some 4% of nearly 8,000 “leading people” whose education the trust tracked were OES. Eton produces more than three times as many big cheeses as its nearest rival, Winchester (Henderson’s alma mater). Taking into account Eton’s larger student body, its high-achiever output rate is 50% higher.

And that figure underplays Eton’s success, for OES cluster at the very pinnacle of British life. The closer you get to power and achievement, in other words, the more likely you are to run into one. David Cameron and his rival for the soul of the Conservative Party, Boris Johnson, the former mayor of London, both attended the school. So did Prince William and Prince Harry, the Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby, the actors Tom Hiddleston and Damian Lewis as well as Redmayne, the adventurers Bear Grylls and Ranulph Fiennes and the Nobel prize-winning biologist Sir John Gurdon. The law, business and banking fester with Old Etonians.

It’s very likely that Eton has a higher “strike rate” than it did in the 1980s, when for every top banker or ambassador there were one or two who conspicuously failed to enter well-paid careers (or indeed careers of any sort), and ended up cultivating marijuana or running a small country estate into the ground. No father of an Etonian in the 1980s would have admitted to thinking about anything so crass as a “return” on his investment, nor were we boys party to our parents’ financial affairs. This too has changed. A recent bursary boy who attended the school with a third of his fees remitted told me that his parents, both teachers at state schools, had sold the family home in order to afford the other two-thirds.

Britain no longer has a ruling class, and the boys who enter Eton are anyway too varied to constitute one. Yet by the time they leave they belong to something like an emerging global elite. They have in common brains, determination and, in many cases, an aspirational family that sets great store by worldly success. These qualities got them to Eton, and they are deployed again and again to ensure they get the most out of the experience. Whether it’s arranging holiday internships with City law firms, Skype tutorials in the run-up to a geography exam, or a reels refresher course before the Caledonian Ball, parents are constantly (and expensively) bolting on all kinds of optional, mini-advantages to the considerable advantage of an Eton education. The great project of modern elite parenting is all about leaving nothing to chance.

There is, of course, a natural tension between the school’s role in this enterprise and its ambition to be an engine of social mobility – just as there is at the American Ivy League universities that Eton’s admissions system seeks to emulate. A small number of Etonians are poor; some are only modestly well-off; but the majority of them are seriously wealthy by the standards of most of the world. One of the consequences of Eton’s transformation is thus to ensure that the children of the very rich stay that way.

For all its inbuilt advantages, the task facing Eton at the turn of the millennium was a tricky one. It needed to entrench its position at the top of British life while carrying out controversial and difficult reforms. Few would argue that the changes have been anything but necessary and skilfully accomplished, but they have come at an intangible price. A recently retired master complained that teaching has got more boring because boys constantly harp on the need to stick to the syllabus: “are we going to need this for the exam, sir?”

Eton used to have a strong sideline in rebels and oddballs. My time there was enriched by exposure to some truly unusual characters, both masters and boys, which engendered a tolerance of human foibles and acted as vital redress from a hierarchical, rules-based institution. Inevitably, as the school has grown more concerned with outcomes and assessments and ever keener to maximise the use to which its facilities are put, the eccentrics have been purged from the institution.

The value of such people is hard to quantify; their achievement doesn’t show through in the exam results, but in the diffusion of a spirit of irreverence and scepticism. One boy in my house, William Sinclair, was a brilliant subversive and satirist of the school; his lampooning of the authorities and disrespect for conventional hierarchies among the boys punctured the pretension and self-regard to which Eton is easily prone. William’s planting of a live chicken in our housemaster’s bathtub was the least of his misdemeanours.

My tutor over my final years was Michael Kidson, a lop-shouldered historian who terrorised us in thrilling, beautiful, confident English, threw blackboard rubbers at boys who offended against syntax and grammar – I got one in the head for pluralising “protagonist” – and defended his oversexed spaniel for trying to solace itself against our thighs. (“Nothing wrong with a young man wanting a wank!”) Above all, Kidson was loyal and would fight fiercely for you if you got into trouble; several boys escaped expulsion thanks to his efforts. On all sorts of levels it is hard to imagine either Sinclair or Kidson being welcomed to today’s Eton, but back then they were among the school’s best-loved figures and knowing them seems as useful to me now as any City internship would have been.

Eton isn’t alone among reformed institutions to have got duller as it has got better, and few of the current boys’ families will rue the absence of eccentrics if their son gets his Oxbridge place. The school has gone from being a rite of passage for a now-defunct upper class to a coalition of different sorts of people who have signed up to an ambitious agenda that may not, in fact, be their own. If Eton hasn’t quite become the liberal, socially transformative institution the reformists seek, it is undeniably more discerning in allocating one of the best starts in life that money (or brains, or ambition) can get you.

Christopher de Bellaigueis an author and journalist. His forthcoming book, “The Islamic Enlightenment: The Struggle Between Faith and Reason, 1798 to Modern Times”, will be published in 2017

Sunday, 14 August 2016

The MG T series / VÍDEO: Douglas Bader

MG sports car owned and driven by RAF hero Sir Douglas Bader in WW2 goes on sale for £80,000
MG sports car owned by RAF airman Sir Douglas Bader is to go on sale at auction and is expected to fetch £80,000
Bader is one of Britain's most famous WW2 pilots having taken to the skies despite losing both legs in a plane crash
He was the first owner of the Midget TA Roadster, which he bought in 1938 and registered to his home in Kensington
The British car, powered by 1.3-litre engine, will be sold by Bonhams at its Goodwood Revival sale on September 12

PUBLISHED: 16:34 GMT, 24 August 2015 | UPDATED: 17:13 GMT, 24 August 2015

He was Britain's most inspirational Second World War pilot after helping the Allies beat the Germans in the air despite losing both legs in a plane crash.
Now, the MG sports car once owned by RAF hero Sir Douglas Bader is to go on sale at auction and is expected to fetch £80,000.
The fighter pilot, who famously flew in the Battle of Britain, was the first owner of the Midget TA Roadster.
He bought it in 1938, seven years after he lost his legs, registering the open-top car to his address in upmarket Kensington, West London.

The MG T series is a range of body-on-frame convertible sports cars that were produced by MG from 1936 to 1955. The series included the MG TA, MG TB, MG TC, MG TD, and MG TF Midget models. The last of these models, the TF, was replaced by the MGA.

The TF name was reinstated in 2002 on the mid-engined MG TF sports car.

The MG TA Midget replaced the PB in 1936. It was an evolution of the previous car and was 3 inches (76 mm) wider in its track at 45 inches (1,100 mm) and 7 inches (180 mm) longer in its wheelbase at 94 inches (2,400 mm).

The previous advanced overhead-cam inline-four engine was now not in use by any other production car so it was replaced by the MPJG OHV unit from the Wolseley 10 but with twin SU carburettors, modified camshaft and manifolding. The engine displaced just 1292 cc, with a stroke of 102 mm (4.0 in) and a bore of 63.5 mm (2.5 in) and power output was 50 hp (40.3 kW) at 4,500 rpm. The four-speed manual gearbox now had synchromesh on the two top ratios and was connected to the engine by a cork-faced clutch running in oil. Unlike the PB, hydraulic brakes were fitted with 9-inch (230 mm) drums.

Like the PB, most were two-seat open cars with a steel body on an ash frame. A bench-type seat was fitted with storage space behind. From 1938 the car could also be had with a more luxurious Tickford drophead coupé body by Salmons of Newport Pagnell and 252 were made.[2] The soft top could be used in three positions, fully open, closed or open just over the seats. Wind-up windows were fitted to the higher topped doors making the car more weathertight and individual bucket seats used in the fully carpeted interior. Complete chassis were fitted with a very basic body at the Abingdon factory and driven to Newport Pagnell to have their coachwork fitted. A closed Airline coupé made by Carbodies, as fitted to the P type, was also offered but only one or two is thought to have been made.

The T-type was capable of reaching almost 80 mph (130 km/h) in standard tune with a 0–60 mph time of 23.1 seconds.

3,003 were made and in 1936 it cost £222 on the home market, the same as had been asked for the PB.

When first introduced the model was known as the T Type and only after the advent of the TB did the TA designation come into use.

Allan Tomlinson won the 1939 Australian Grand Prix driving an MG TA

The TA was replaced by the TB Midget in May 1939. It had a smaller but more modern XPAG engine as fitted to the Morris Ten Series M, but in a more highly tuned state and like the TA with twin SU carburettors. This 1250 cc I4 unit featured a slightly less undersquare 66.6 mm (2.6 in) bore and 90 mm (3.5 in) stroke and had a maximum power output of 54 hp (40 kW) at 5200 rpm. The oil-immersed clutch was also replaced by a dry-plate type and gear ratios revised.

Available as an open 2-seater or more luxurious Tickford drophead coupé, this is the rarest of the T-type cars; only 379 were made.

The TC Midget was the first postwar MG, launched in 1945. It was quite similar to the pre-war TB, sharing the same 1,250 cc (76 cu in) pushrod-OHV engine with a slightly higher compression ratio of 7.4:1 giving 54.5 bhp (40.6 kW) at 5200 rpm. The makers also provided several alternative stages of tuning for "specific purposes".

It was exported to the United States, even though only ever built in right-hand drive. The export version had slightly smaller US specification sealed-beam headlights and larger twin rear lights, as well as turn signals and chrome-plated front and rear bumpers.

The body was approximately 4 inches (100 mm) wider than the TB measured at the rear of the doors to give more cockpit space. The overall car width remained the same resulting in narrower running boards with two tread strips as opposed to the previous three. The tachometer was directly in front of the driver, while the speedometer was on the other side of the dash in front of the passenger.

10,001 TCs were produced, from September 1945 (chassis number TC0251) to Nov. 1949 (chassis number TC10251), more than any previous MG model. It cost £527 on the home market in 1947.

Fuel consumption was 28 mpg-imp (10.1 L/100 km; 23.3 mpg-US).[5] Its 0–60 mph time was 22.7 seconds, a respectable performance at the time.

MG TC | For the Love of Cars | Channel 4

Thursday, 11 August 2016

Gertrude of Arabia / Queen of the Desert Official Trailer (2015) - Nicole Kidman Movie

Gertrude of Arabia: the great adventurer may finally get her museum

She was an explorer, an archaeologist, a writer and a spy. Now there’s a campaign to save Gertrude Bell’s vandalised home
Pat Yale
Tuesday 9 August 2016 08.00 BST

Back in the 1880s, the evening train from Middlesbrough would often stop right in front of a stately house in Redcar called Red Barns. Out would step Hugh Bell, the cultured and wealthy head of a sprawling iron, steel and chemical empire. As often as not, waiting to greet him as he strode up the garden path would be the daughter who would later find fame as an explorer, archaeologist, writer and spy.

Once a book-lined and pet-filled family home, Red Barns has fallen on hard times. But a campaign has now been launched to buy it and convert it into a memorial to Gertrude Bell, turning the spotlight back on to a woman who was, in the early 20th century, as famous as Lawrence of Arabia.

Gertrude was one of those rare individuals who have only to take up an activity to make a success of it. Aged just 20, she was the first woman to achieve a first in history at Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford. By her early 30s, she had mastered Farsi well enough to produce a translation of the Divan of Hafiz that is still admired in present-day Iran. She then became so successful a mountaineer that a peak in the Swiss Alps is named after her. And she was one of the first archaeologists – and certainly the first woman - to examine the Byzantine remains of Anatolian Turkey.

On the day her grandfather's iron and steel works opened, he rode through Newcastle in an aluminium top hat

Yet those are her mere add-on accomplishments. For today, Gertrude is mainly remembered as the woman who explored much of the Middle East, taking some of the earliest photographs of the monuments now being destroyed by Isis. The knowledge she acquired became invaluable to the British government during the first world war. In later life, Gertrude settled in Baghdad and took on the role of kingmaker to Faisal. Once the new monarchy was established, she threw herself into the creation of the National Museum of Iraq. She died in 1926, in Baghdad, almost certainly at her own hand.

Gertrude – whose story was told in Werner Herzog’s 2015 film Queen of the Desert, starring Nicole Kidman – was not the only larger than life character in her family. The wealth that facilitated her Middle Eastern wanderings was originally created by her formidable grandfather, Sir Isaac Lowthian Bell, who had set up an iron and steel works in Newcastle and an aluminium plant in Middlesbrough. On the day it opened, he rode through Newcastle wearing an aluminium top hat. Despite their important role in the history of northeast England, the Bells are oddly unremembered. A blue plaque on Red Barns may commemorate Gertrude, but there is no statue of her let alone a museum.

Gertrude Bell’s home, Red Barns, in Redcar, in the 1920s.

The blue plaque at Red Barns Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

A rare opportunity has presented itself to right this wrong. In 1868, Gertrude’s father commissioned a new home for his young family in the heart of Redcar. Largely the brainchild of William Morris, the Arts and Crafts movement tends to be associated with southern England. But the Bells were to become enthusiastic patrons of the style in the northeast. In 1868, it was to Philip Webb, a man synonymous with Arts and Crafts, that Hugh turned.

Only Webb’s second commission as an architect, Red Barns bears a striking resemblance to the better-known Red House in Bexleyheath, London, which he had co-designed with Morris in 1860. A two-storeyed mansion built from hand-moulded bricks and featuring hipped roofs and soaring chimneys, Red Barns is described as Georgian vernacular revival by Historic England. Its interior was the work of Morris, who wallpapered it with blackbirds singing against a bright blue sky.

Red Barns is infused with Gertrude’s presence. It was here that she played games of “housemaids” with her brothers and sisters, dashing silently from the cellars to the attics while attempting to avoid being spotted by the servants. It was in the extensive gardens that she cultivated her lifelong love of flowers. Scrambling up the scaffolding as the house was extended in 1882 may have given her the head for heights that turned her into a mountaineer. Riding the ponies stabled at Red Barns gave her the confidence to ride across virtually unmapped tracts of the Middle East. And it was while living at Red Barns that she developed another lifelong passion that has made her such a gift to historians: letter-writing.

Nicole Kidman as Gertrude Bell and Robert Pattinson as TE Lawrence in Queen of the Desert.

Much taken with Webb’s work, Gertrude’s grandfather also commissioned him to design Rounton Grange near Northallerton, entrusting the interior decoration to Morris and Edward Burne-Jones. And his weekend retreat, the medieval Mount Grace Priory near Osmotherley, was also treated to an Arts and Crafts update. Given the family’s involvement with the industrial development of the northeast, it’s ironic that they should have chosen to associate themselves so strongly with an architectural movement whose practitioners were proudly anti-industrial.

After the first world war, luck ran out for the Bell family. They lost much of their fortune to death duties and increased competition in the iron and steel industry. Mount Grace Priory is now owned by English Heritage, which meticulously reproduced some of the original Morris wallpaper in its restoration. Otherwise, time has not been especially kind to their built legacy. Washington New Hall has been turned into apartments. And once the family’s fortune was gone, nothing could save magnificent Rounton Grange from the wrecker’s ball. In 1953, it was completely demolished.

The fountain that stood in the garden has been stolen

“Red Barns is Grade II* listed,” says Carol Pyrah of Historic England, “putting it in the top 8% of buildings in England in terms of its special architectural and historic interest.” Yet even so, it was converted into a pub and hotel. Now the hotel has closed, leaving the house vulnerable to vandalism. Stones have been thrown at the lovely “porthole” stained-glass window and, according to Jan Long, founder of the Gertrude Bell Society, the fountain that stood proudly in the garden where Gertrude planted flowers has been stolen.

In 2015, the Great North Museum in Newcastle hosted a successful exhibition entitled The Extraordinary Gertrude Bell, which has now moved to Kirkleatham Museum in Redcar. But members of the newly formed Friends of Red Barns think the house would make a perfect permanent home for the exhibition and have launched a campaign to save it from conversion into flats.

Redcar MP Anna Turley is spearheading the campaign. “I was becoming increasingly distressed at the visible decline of this historic building,” she says, “and was contacted by many constituents with the same concerns.” Now she is hopeful that a new museum could help kickstart tourism in an area badly hit by recent steelwork closures.

“The exhibition has shown the importance of an understanding of past events and issues that have ongoing significance in the Middle East in particular,” says Dr Mark Jackson, manager of the Gertrude Bell Photographic Archive at Newcastle University and co-curator of the exhibition. “Red Barns promises to provide inspiration for a host of initiatives that could sustain the building long term while making a very positive contribution to future society.”

The trains may no longer stop in front of Gertrude Bell’s childhood home. But the chance now exists to turn Red Barns into a memorial to one of the greatest women ever born in the UK.

The Extraordinary Gertrude Bell is at Kirkleatham Museum, Redcar, until 1 January;

Gertrude Margaret Lowthian Bell, CBE (14 July 1868 – 12 July 1926) was an English writer, traveller, political officer, administrator, spy and archaeologist who explored, mapped, and became highly influential to British imperial policy-making due to her knowledge and contacts, built up through extensive travels in Greater Syria, Mesopotamia, Asia Minor, and Arabia. Along with T. E. Lawrence, Bell helped support the Hashemite dynasties in what is today Jordan as well as in Iraq.

She played a major role in establishing and helping administer the modern state of Iraq, utilising her unique perspective from her travels and relations with tribal leaders throughout the Middle East. During her lifetime she was highly esteemed and trusted by British officials and given an immense amount of power for a woman at the time. She has been described as "one of the few representatives of His Majesty's Government remembered by the Arabs with anything resembling affection".

Bell was born on 14 July 1868 in Washington New Hall, County Durham, England – now known as Dame Margaret Hall – to a family whose wealth enabled her travels. She is described as having "reddish hair and piercing blue-green eyes, with her mother's bow shaped lips and rounded chin, her father’s oval face and pointed nose". Her personality was characterised by energy, intellect, and a thirst for adventure which shaped her path in life. Her grandfather was the ironmaster Sir Isaac Lowthian Bell, an industrialist and a Liberal Member of Parliament, in Benjamin Disraeli's second term. His role in British policy-making exposed Gertrude at a young age to international matters and most likely encouraged her curiosity for the world, and her later involvement in international politics.

Bell's mother, Mary Shield Bell, died in 1871 while giving birth to a son, Maurice (later the 3rd Baronet). Gertrude Bell was just three at the time, and the death led to a lifelong close relationship with her father, Sir Hugh Bell, 2nd Baronet, who was three times mayor of Middlesbrough (1874, 1883 and 1911), High Sheriff of Durham (1895), Justice of the Peace, Deputy Lieutenant of County Durham and Lord Lieutenant of the North Riding of Yorkshire. Throughout her life she consulted with him on political matters. Some biographies say the loss of her mother had caused underlying childhood trauma, revealed through periods of depression and risky behaviour.

At the age of seven Bell acquired a stepmother, Florence Bell, and eventually, three half-siblings. Florence Bell was a playwright and author of children's stories, as well as the author of a study of Bell factory workers. She instilled concepts of duty and decorum in Gertrude and contributed to her intellectual development. Florence Bell's activities with the wives of Bolckow Vaughan ironworkers in Eston, near Middlesbrough, may have helped influence her step-daughter's later stance promoting education of Iraqi women.

Gertrude Bell received her early education from Queen's College in London and then later at Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford University, at the age of 17. History was one of the few subjects women were allowed to study, due to the many restrictions imposed on them at the time. She specialised in modern history, in which she received a first class honours degree in two years.

Bell never married or had children. She befriended British colonial administrator Sir Frank Swettenham on a visit to Singapore with her brother Hugo in 1903 and maintained a correspondence with him until 1909. She had a "brief but passionate affair" with Swettenham following his retirement to England in 1904. She also had an unconsummated affair with Maj. Charles Doughty-Wylie, a married man, with whom she exchanged love letters from 1913 to 1915. After his death in 1915 during the Battle of Gallipoli, Bell launched herself into her work.

Bell's uncle, Sir Frank Lascelles, was British minister (similar to ambassador) at Tehran, Persia. In May 1892, after leaving Oxford, Bell travelled to Persia to visit him. She described this journey in her book, Persian Pictures, which was published in 1894. She spent much of the next decade travelling around the world, mountaineering in Switzerland, and developing a passion for archaeology and languages. She had become fluent in Arabic, Persian, French and German as well as also speaking Italian and Turkish. In 1899, Bell again went to the Middle East. She visited Palestine and Syria that year and in 1900, on a trip from Jerusalem to Damascus, she became acquainted with the Druze living in Jabal al-Druze.She travelled across Arabia six times over the next 12 years.

Between 1899 and 1904, she conquered a number of mountains including the La Meije and Mont Blanc as she recorded 10 new paths or first ascents in the Bernese Alps. One Alpine peak in the Bernese Oberland, the 2,632 m (8,635 ft) Gertrudspitze, was named after her after it was first traversed by her and her guides Ulrich and Heinrich Fuhrer in 1901. However, she did fail in an attempt of the Finsteraarhorn in August 1902 when inclement weather including snow, hail and lightning forced her to spend "forty eight hours on the rope" with her guides, clinging to the rock face in terrifying conditions which nearly cost her her life.

Bell's workers at the Binbirkilise excavations in 1907

She published her observations in the book Syria: The Desert and the Sown published in 1907 (William Heinemann Ltd, London). In this book she described, photographed and detailed her trip to Greater Syria's towns and cities like Damascus, Jerusalem, Beirut, Antioch and Alexandretta. Bell's vivid descriptions opened up the Arabian deserts to the western world. In March 1907, Bell journeyed to the Ottoman Empire and began to work with the archaeologist and New Testament scholar Sir William M. Ramsey. Their excavations in Binbirkilise were chronicled in A Thousand and One Churches. In 1907, they discovered a field of ruins in northern Syria on the east bank of the upper course of the Euphrates to the steep slope of the former river valley. From the ruins, they created a plan and described the ramparts: "Munbayah, where my tents were pitched – the Arabic name means only a high-altitude course – was probably the Bersiba in Ptolemy's list of city names. It consists of a double rampart, situated on the river bank "

In January 1909, she left for Mesopotamia. She visited the Hittite city of Carchemish, mapped and described the ruin of Ukhaidir and finally went to Babylon and Najaf. Back in Carchemish, she consulted with the two archaeologists on site. One of them was T. E. Lawrence. Her 1913 Arabian journey was generally difficult. She was the second foreign woman after Lady Anne Blunt to visit Ha'il.

In 1927, a year after her death, her stepmother Dame Florence Bell published two volumes of Bell's collected correspondence written during the 20 years preceding World War I.

At the outbreak of World War I, Bell's request for a Middle East posting was initially denied. She instead volunteered with the Red Cross in France.

Later, she was asked by British Intelligence to get soldiers through the deserts, and from the World War I period until her death she was the only woman holding political power and influence in shaping British imperial policy in the Middle East. She often acquired a team of locals which she directed and led on her expeditions. Throughout her travels Bell established close relations with tribe members across the Middle East. Additionally, being a woman gave her exclusive access to the chambers of wives of tribe leaders, giving her access to other perspectives and functions.

In November 1915, however she was summoned to Cairo to the nascent Arab Bureau, headed by General Gilbert Clayton. She also again met T. E. Lawrence.

Like Lawrence, Bell had attended Oxford and earned First Class Honours in Modern History. Bell spoke Arabic, Persian, French and German. She was an archaeologist, traveller and photographer in the Middle East before World War I. Upon the recommendation of renowned archaeologist and historian Lt. Cmdr. David Hogarth, first Lawrence, then Bell, were assigned to Army Intelligence Headquarters in Cairo in 1915 for war service. Because both Bell and Lawrence had travelled the desert and established ties with the local tribes and gained unique perspectives of the people and the land before World War I, Hogarth realised the value of Lawrence and Bell's expertise. Both Bell and Lawrence stood hardly 5'5", yet both could ride with great determination and endurance through the desert for hours on end.

Arriving in February 1916, she did not, at first, receive an official position, but instead helped Hogarth set about organising and processing her own, Lawrence's and Capt. W. H. I. Shakespear's data about the location and disposition of Arab tribes that could be encouraged to join the British against the Ottoman Empire. Lawrence and the British used the information in forming alliances with the Arabs.

On 3 March 1916, Gen. Clayton abruptly sent Bell to Basra, which British forces had captured in November 1914, to advise Chief Political Officer Percy Cox regarding an area she knew better than any other Westerner. Cox found her an office in his headquarters, where she was employed for the two days per week she was not at Military GHQ Basra. She drew maps to help the British army reach Baghdad safely. She became the only female political officer in the British forces and received the title of "Liaison Officer, Correspondent to Cairo" (i.e. to the Arab Bureau where she had been assigned). She was St. John Philby's field controller, and taught him the finer arts of behind-the-scenes political manoeuvering.

I went out last week along the light railway 25 miles into the desert it's the Nasariyeh Railway - was so curious to travel 50 minutes by rail and find...General Maude, our new army commander, has just arrived. I've made his acquaintance…

While in the Middle East, Gertrude Bell became a witness to the Armenian Genocide. She remarked that in comparison to previous massacres, the massacres of preceding years "were not comparable to the massacres carried out in 1915 and the succeeding years." Bell also reported that in Damascus, "Turks sold Armenian women openly in the public market." In an intelligence report, Gertrude Bell wrote:

The battalion left Aleppo on 3 February and reached Ras al-Ain in twelve hours....some 12,000 Armenians were concentrated under the guardianship of some hundred Kurds...These Kurds were called gendarmes, but in reality mere butchers; bands of them were publicly ordered to take parties of Armenians, of both sexes, to various destinations, but had secret instructions to destroy the males, children and old women...One of these gendarmes confessed to killing 100 Armenian men himself...the empty desert cisterns and caves were also filled with corpses...No man can ever think of a woman's body except as a matter of horror, instead of attraction, after Ras al-Ain."

After British troops took Baghdad on 10 March 1917, Bell was summoned by Cox to Baghdad and given the title of "Oriental Secretary." She, Cox and Lawrence were among a select group of "Orientalists" convened by Winston Churchill to attend a 1921 Conference in Cairo to determine the boundaries of the British mandate (e.g., "the British Partitions") and nascent states such as Iraq. Gertrude is supposed to have described Lawrence as being able "to ignite fires in cold rooms".

Throughout the conference, she, Cox and Lawrence worked tirelessly to promote the establishment of the countries of Transjordan and Iraq to be presided over by the Kings Abdullah and Faisal, sons of the instigator of the Arab Revolt against the Ottoman Empire (ca. 1915–1916), Hussein bin Ali, Sharif and Emir of Mecca. Until her death in Baghdad, she served in the Iraq British High Commission advisory group there.

Another target of her efforts was thwarting the ambitions of Zionist movement. Gertrude Bell's hostility towards Zionism was as passionate as her advocacy of the Arab cause - she thought the Jews had no place in Palestine.

Referred to by Persians as "al-Khatun" (a Lady of the Court who keeps an open eye and ear for the benefit of the State), she was a confidante of King Faisal of Iraq and helped ease his passage into the role, amongst Iraq's other tribal leaders at the start of his reign. He helped her to found Baghdad's great Iraqi Archaeological Museum from her own modest artefact collection and to establish The British School of Archaeology, Iraq, for the endowment of excavation projects from proceeds in her will. The stress of authoring a prodigious output of books, correspondence, intelligence reports, reference works, and white papers; of recurring bronchitis attacks brought on by years of heavy smoking in the company of English and Arab cohorts; of bouts with malaria; and finally, of coping with Baghdad's summer heat all took a toll on her health. Somewhat frail to start with, she became nearly emaciated.

Some consider the present troubles in Iraq are derived from the political boundaries Bell conceived, to create its borders. Perhaps so, but her reports indicate that problems were foreseen, and that it was clearly understood that there were just not many (if any) permanent solutions for calming the divisive forces at work in that part of the world.

Mark Sykes, the British diplomat responsible for the Sykes–Picot Agreement, was not fond of her. He once described her as

"conceited, gushing, flat-chested, man-woman, globe-trotting, rumpwagging, blethering ass

As the dismantling of the Ottoman Empire was finalised by the end of the war in late January 1919, Bell was assigned to conduct an analysis of the situation in Mesopotamia. Due to her familiarity and relations with the tribes in the area she had strong ideas about the leadership needed in Iraq. She spent the next ten months writing what was later considered a masterly official report, "Self Determination in Mesopotamia". The British Commissioner in Mesopotamia, Arnold Wilson, had different ideas of how Iraq should be run, preferring an Arab government to be under the influence of British officials who would retain real control, as he felt, from experience, that Mesopotamian populations were not yet ready to govern and administer the country efficiently and peacefully.

On 11 October 1920, Percy Cox returned to Baghdad and asked her to continue as Oriental Secretary, acting as liaison with the forthcoming Arab government. Gertrude Bell essentially played the role of mediator between the Arab government and British officials. Bell often had to mediate between the various groups of Iraq including a majority population of Shias in the southern region, Sunnis in central Iraq, and the Kurds, mostly in the northern region, who wished to be autonomous. Keeping these groups united was essential for political balance in Iraq and for British imperial interests. Iraq not only contained valuable resources in oil but would act as a buffer zone, with the help of Kurds in the north as a standing army in the region to protect against Turkey, Persia (Iran), and Syria. British officials in London, especially Churchill, were highly concerned about cutting heavy costs in the colonies, including the cost of quashing tribal infighting. Another important project for both the British and new Iraqi rulers was creating a new identity for these people so that they would identify themselves as one nation.

British officials quickly realised that their strategies in governing were adding to costs. Iraq would be cheaper as a self-governing state. The Cairo Conference of 1921 was held to determine the political and geographic structure of what later became Iraq and the modern Middle East.[28] Significant input was given by Gertrude Bell in these discussions thus she was an essential part of its creation. At the Cairo Conference Bell and Lawrence highly recommended Faisal bin Hussein, (the son of Hussein, Sherif of Mecca), former commander of the Arab forces that helped the British during the war and entered Damascus at the culmination of the Arab Revolt. He had been recently deposed by France as King of Syria, and British officials at the Cairo Conference decided to make him the first king of Iraq. They believed that due to his lineage as a Hashemite and his diplomatic skills he would be respected and have the ability to unite the various groups in the country. Shias would respect him because of his lineage from Muhammad. Sunnis, including Kurds, would follow him because he was Sunni from a respected family. Keeping all the groups under control in Iraq was essential to balance the political and economic interests of the British Empire.

Upon Faisal's arrival in 1921, Bell advised him in local questions, including matters involving tribal geography and local business. She also supervised the selection of appointees for cabinet and other leadership posts in the new government.

Throughout the early 1920s Bell was an integral part of the administration of Iraq. The new Hashemite monarchy used the Sharifian flag, which consisted of a black stripe representing the Abbasid caliphate, white stripe representing the Umayyad caliphate, and a green stripe for Fatimid Dynasty, and lastly a red triangle to set across the three bands symbolising Islam. Bell felt it essential to customise it for Iraq by adding a gold star to the design.[29] Faisal was crowned king of Iraq on 23 August 1921, but he was not completely welcomed. Utilizing Shi'ite history to gain support for Faisal, during the holy month of Muharram, Bell compared Faisal's arrival in Baghdad to Husayn, grandson of Muhammad.

However, she did not find working with the new king to be easy: "You may rely upon one thing — I'll never engage in creating kings again; it's too great a strain.

Bell briefly returned to Britain in 1925, and found herself facing family problems and ill health. Her family's fortune had begun to decline due to the onset of post-World War I worker strikes in Britain and economic depression in Europe. She returned to Baghdad and soon developed pleurisy. When she recovered, she heard that her younger half brother Hugh had died of typhoid.

On 12 July 1926, Bell was discovered dead, of an apparent overdose of sleeping pills. There is much debate on her death, but it is unknown whether the overdose was an intentional suicide or accidental since she had asked her maid to wake her.

She was buried at the British cemetery in Baghdad's Bab al-Sharji district. Her funeral was a major event, attended by large numbers of people including her colleagues, British officials and the King of Iraq. It was said King Faisal watched the procession from his private balcony as they carried her coffin to the cemetery