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Hillingdon
Dec. 3rd, 2025 07:00 am![[syndicated profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/feed.png){kind=small}
dg_weblog_feedMost London boroughs are named either after large towns or something historically apposite. Not many are named after villages, and one of the humblest of these is Hillingdon.
The original intention had been to call the borough Uxbridge, indeed this had been the Ministry of Housing and Local Government's preferred choice. But of the four constituent authorities only the Municipal Borough of Uxbridge was keen, whereas Hayes and Harlington Urban District, Ruislip-Northwood Urban District and Yiewsley and West Drayton Urban District would all have preferred "almost anything else". Amongst the alternatives put forward were Elthorne, West Middlesex, Heathrow and the frankly obsequious Queensborough (as Heathrow was where the Queen had first set foot in England after her accession). Late in the day 'Hillingdon' was put forward and eventually won a run-off with West Middlesex, hence a small village on the Uxbridge Road is now nominally home to 330,000 people.
Hillingdon gets a mention in the Domesday Book (which is more than Uxbridge does), its population recorded as 2 villagers, 2 smallholders, 1 cottager, 5 other households and 1000 pigs. A church was built here in the mid 13th century, occupying an ideal hilltop site on a well-drained patch of glacial gravels. Uxbridge was soon a larger market town, straddling a key bridging point over the River Colne, but strangely remained part of the parish of Hillingdon until it was split off in 1866. Hillingdon was still an isolated stop on the main road until suburbia encroached in the 1920s, and even now the tube station of the same name is over a mile north of the village centre.
The church on the hilltop is St John The Baptist, its flint tower poking above tall conifers amid a crammed churchyard. Its historical provenance really stands out as you drive along the Uxbridge Road, an endless succession of semis and drab arterial businesses suddenly replaced by a characterful cluster of heritage buildings. In good news the church welcomes visitors daily so anyone can step inside and enjoy a slice of old Middlesex, and perhaps also a coffee if the rector's lurking by the kettle in the south aisle. I could tell it was going to be an interesting building as soon as I spotted three free leaflets ensuring visitors don't miss anything, including the 497 year-old effigy by the altar and the fine detail in the stained glass East Window.
The oldest part of the church is the chancel arch, dated 1270, although it used to be four feet six lower before a young architect by the name of George Gilbert Scott recommended raising it to form the focal point of his enlarged nave. The finest feature is probably the Le Strange Brass, a tomb-top now found in the south aisle, which Pevsner described as "the most ambitious brass of the middle ages to survive in Greater London". The six foot slab depicts the 8th Lord Strange (1444-1479) and his wife Jacquetta, sister of Edward IV's queen Elizabeth, with an additional brasswork of their daughter Anne squeezed into a small gap at the bottom. The font looks to be equally old but is actually a Victorian replica of a 15th century font found in Happisburgh, Norfolk. St John's' carol service is this Sunday if you prefer a more worshipful visit.
The recreation ground beyond the churchyard is called Coney Green, a name thought to be derived from its former use as a rabbit warren. This is also the site of a Palaeolithic settlement, perhaps as substantial as a hillfort, whose earthworks are still evident as a broken bank almost quarter of a mile in length. I struggled to see much of a hump or ditch along the edge of the football pitch, although apparently the cricket pavilion had to be carefully positioned to make sure it didn't damage the embankment. You can see all of this from the top deck of the Superloop, by the way, although it's telling that the SL8 doesn't bother to stop in the village the borough's named after, only at what used to be Hillingdon Heath back down the hill.
Across the road is The Red Lion, a timber-framed coaching inn with pleasingly higgledy frontage. Its key moment in history came on 27th April 1646 when Charles I dropped in while on the run from the New Model Army in Oxford. The king arrived with two close friends while posing as a servant called Harry, having had his signature hair and beard trimmed overnight with scissors in an attempt at a non-royal disguise. The trio spent a few hours drinking here in Hillingdon while trying to plot the best route to meet reinforcements in Newark, a circuitous trip which inevitably didn't end well. Had they arrived more recently they could perhaps have enjoyed a limited menu of pizzas, burgers and ribeye steak, and also a bed in the hotel annexe sensitively wedged behind the listed building in 2003.
The north side of the road, for a few hundred metres at least, is an attractive mix of Tudor and Tudorbethan. Cedar House is fundamentally 16th century and seriously gabled with proper white and black struts. It's named after the towering tree out front which is said to have been planted by a renowned botanist who lived here 300 years ago, and is now an old people's home. Meanwhile the row of cottages on the brow of the hill was demolished during road widening in 1935 and is now the pleasingly-retro home of The Village chippy and the Manor Launderama. It makes my local den of washing machines look positively ordinary in comparison.
Most of the manorial estates around the village are now housing estates, although one turrety mansion survives as the heart of Bishopshalt, a secondary school in prime premises certain private establishments could only dream of. It's more fruitful to continue down Royal Lane to the site of Hillingdon Grove, itself long replaced by lesser homes but whose Victorian country garden survives as a London Wildlife Trust nature reserve. A slightly muddy trudge through oak woodland leads to a secluded ornamental pool, once some gardener's pride and joy but now colonised by pondweed and a family of ducks. I was particularly taken by the raucous birdsong on all sides, far more than you'd normally hear in December, which can't only have come from the magpies I spotted.
Two more mansions survive to the north up Vine Lane, once the rural backway to Ickenham. One's Hillingdon Court which has become an all-through international school posh enough to shuttle its pupils in from Beaconsfield and Notting Hill. You won't see that, it's too well shielded. The other is Hillingdon House, a Georgian pile overlooking the River Pinn which now comprises a luxury banqueting hall and premium serviced offices. Its grounds were requisitioned by the Royal Air Force during WW1 and then during WW2 No 11 Group Fighter Command moved in, hence you can now visit the excellent Battle of Britain Bunker visitor centre for an underground tour. Everyone always thinks that's in Uxbridge, the high street being so close, but being the other side of the river it's technically in historic Hillingdon.
So the Hillingdon everyone knows as a London borough in fact derives its name from a medieval village that's still partly in situ, but only if you know where to look.
The original intention had been to call the borough Uxbridge, indeed this had been the Ministry of Housing and Local Government's preferred choice. But of the four constituent authorities only the Municipal Borough of Uxbridge was keen, whereas Hayes and Harlington Urban District, Ruislip-Northwood Urban District and Yiewsley and West Drayton Urban District would all have preferred "almost anything else". Amongst the alternatives put forward were Elthorne, West Middlesex, Heathrow and the frankly obsequious Queensborough (as Heathrow was where the Queen had first set foot in England after her accession). Late in the day 'Hillingdon' was put forward and eventually won a run-off with West Middlesex, hence a small village on the Uxbridge Road is now nominally home to 330,000 people.
Hillingdon gets a mention in the Domesday Book (which is more than Uxbridge does), its population recorded as 2 villagers, 2 smallholders, 1 cottager, 5 other households and 1000 pigs. A church was built here in the mid 13th century, occupying an ideal hilltop site on a well-drained patch of glacial gravels. Uxbridge was soon a larger market town, straddling a key bridging point over the River Colne, but strangely remained part of the parish of Hillingdon until it was split off in 1866. Hillingdon was still an isolated stop on the main road until suburbia encroached in the 1920s, and even now the tube station of the same name is over a mile north of the village centre.
The church on the hilltop is St John The Baptist, its flint tower poking above tall conifers amid a crammed churchyard. Its historical provenance really stands out as you drive along the Uxbridge Road, an endless succession of semis and drab arterial businesses suddenly replaced by a characterful cluster of heritage buildings. In good news the church welcomes visitors daily so anyone can step inside and enjoy a slice of old Middlesex, and perhaps also a coffee if the rector's lurking by the kettle in the south aisle. I could tell it was going to be an interesting building as soon as I spotted three free leaflets ensuring visitors don't miss anything, including the 497 year-old effigy by the altar and the fine detail in the stained glass East Window.
The oldest part of the church is the chancel arch, dated 1270, although it used to be four feet six lower before a young architect by the name of George Gilbert Scott recommended raising it to form the focal point of his enlarged nave. The finest feature is probably the Le Strange Brass, a tomb-top now found in the south aisle, which Pevsner described as "the most ambitious brass of the middle ages to survive in Greater London". The six foot slab depicts the 8th Lord Strange (1444-1479) and his wife Jacquetta, sister of Edward IV's queen Elizabeth, with an additional brasswork of their daughter Anne squeezed into a small gap at the bottom. The font looks to be equally old but is actually a Victorian replica of a 15th century font found in Happisburgh, Norfolk. St John's' carol service is this Sunday if you prefer a more worshipful visit.
The recreation ground beyond the churchyard is called Coney Green, a name thought to be derived from its former use as a rabbit warren. This is also the site of a Palaeolithic settlement, perhaps as substantial as a hillfort, whose earthworks are still evident as a broken bank almost quarter of a mile in length. I struggled to see much of a hump or ditch along the edge of the football pitch, although apparently the cricket pavilion had to be carefully positioned to make sure it didn't damage the embankment. You can see all of this from the top deck of the Superloop, by the way, although it's telling that the SL8 doesn't bother to stop in the village the borough's named after, only at what used to be Hillingdon Heath back down the hill.
Across the road is The Red Lion, a timber-framed coaching inn with pleasingly higgledy frontage. Its key moment in history came on 27th April 1646 when Charles I dropped in while on the run from the New Model Army in Oxford. The king arrived with two close friends while posing as a servant called Harry, having had his signature hair and beard trimmed overnight with scissors in an attempt at a non-royal disguise. The trio spent a few hours drinking here in Hillingdon while trying to plot the best route to meet reinforcements in Newark, a circuitous trip which inevitably didn't end well. Had they arrived more recently they could perhaps have enjoyed a limited menu of pizzas, burgers and ribeye steak, and also a bed in the hotel annexe sensitively wedged behind the listed building in 2003.
The north side of the road, for a few hundred metres at least, is an attractive mix of Tudor and Tudorbethan. Cedar House is fundamentally 16th century and seriously gabled with proper white and black struts. It's named after the towering tree out front which is said to have been planted by a renowned botanist who lived here 300 years ago, and is now an old people's home. Meanwhile the row of cottages on the brow of the hill was demolished during road widening in 1935 and is now the pleasingly-retro home of The Village chippy and the Manor Launderama. It makes my local den of washing machines look positively ordinary in comparison.
Most of the manorial estates around the village are now housing estates, although one turrety mansion survives as the heart of Bishopshalt, a secondary school in prime premises certain private establishments could only dream of. It's more fruitful to continue down Royal Lane to the site of Hillingdon Grove, itself long replaced by lesser homes but whose Victorian country garden survives as a London Wildlife Trust nature reserve. A slightly muddy trudge through oak woodland leads to a secluded ornamental pool, once some gardener's pride and joy but now colonised by pondweed and a family of ducks. I was particularly taken by the raucous birdsong on all sides, far more than you'd normally hear in December, which can't only have come from the magpies I spotted.
Two more mansions survive to the north up Vine Lane, once the rural backway to Ickenham. One's Hillingdon Court which has become an all-through international school posh enough to shuttle its pupils in from Beaconsfield and Notting Hill. You won't see that, it's too well shielded. The other is Hillingdon House, a Georgian pile overlooking the River Pinn which now comprises a luxury banqueting hall and premium serviced offices. Its grounds were requisitioned by the Royal Air Force during WW1 and then during WW2 No 11 Group Fighter Command moved in, hence you can now visit the excellent Battle of Britain Bunker visitor centre for an underground tour. Everyone always thinks that's in Uxbridge, the high street being so close, but being the other side of the river it's technically in historic Hillingdon.
So the Hillingdon everyone knows as a London borough in fact derives its name from a medieval village that's still partly in situ, but only if you know where to look.
