The City of London boasts some splendidly offbeat ancient ceremonies, like the one where they weigh coins, the one where they mark carts and the one where they drive sheep. Every June comes the one where they cut a rose, place it on a pillow and process it through the streets. This is the Knollys Rose Ceremony, and it took place yesterday morning just around the corner from Tower Hill.
Once upon a time, for which read 1380, London-based Sir Robert Knollys travelled abroad to fight against the French. While he was away his wife Constance purchased some land on the opposite side of Seething Lane, then built a bridge so she could reach her new property without walking in the muddy street. Unfortunately she forgot to ask for the medieval equivalent of planning permission, so was fined for her misdemeanour. Fortunately her husband was extremely popular so the penalty was very small - a single red rose to be presented annually on the feast of St John the Baptist.
Both properties are long gone, but the ceremony was revived in the 1920s and continues to this day because liveryfolk love a bit of tradition and a lot of dressing up. The precise day's no longer fixed, but check the calendar, then turn up on Seething Lane at 11am and anyone can watch. Expect several oarsmen to appear. Hats and morning dress are optional.
What used to be the Knollys' home is now a hotel and their additional property a public garden. The garden also marks the original site of the Navy Office where diarist Samuel Pepys lived and worked, which is why there's a prominent statue of him in the centre. It's very much the kind of place where office workers sneak out for a smoke or to make an off-grid phone call, folders tucked under arm, snack in hand. The lawn's uninvitingly pristine. The flowerbeds double as seating. As for the two squat pavilions at either end, these turn out to be concealed liftshaft entrances to a hotel's underground car park.
Seething Lane Garden used to be a plain fenced rectangle unlocked on weekdays only. It reopened in its current form last year after a major upgrade related to the redevelopment of Ten Trinity Square, former headquarters of the Port of London Authority. This will be relevant shortly. Ten Trinity Square backs onto the site and since 2017 has been a luxury hotel (of the £950+ per room per night kind) with parking cunningly hidden beneath the lawn. The hotel (and thus the garden) belong to Thai-Chinese investment company Reignwood Group. This will be relevant later.
The Knollys Rose Ceremony involves quite a cast of characters, chief amongst whom is the the Master of the Company of Watermen and Lightermen. Sir Robert had nothing to do with the river, but the Port of London Authority used to own the site, remember, which is why the Watermen have ceremonial governance. The Master gets to dress up in a blue cloak and a black floppy cap, with the fur of a dead animal draped round his neck, while one of his comrades parades in an admiral's hat. Also present yesterday were three youthful watermen in red frock coats with wooden oars balanced over their shoulders, and an older gent with a shiny metal blade.
The previous incarnation of the garden had several rose bushes, but that's not practical in what's now a public space, so instead there's now a pergola at one end entwined by climbing roses. Yesterday morning the ceremony's key players clustered here waiting for a nearby clock to strike eleven. Circled around were dozens of guests who'd received an actual invitation to be present, i.e those in lounge suits or smart dresses, and the rest of us made do with looking over their shoulders.
The Master gave a welcoming speech and a brief precis of the Knollys Rose story, confirming the validity of what was about to happen. Then he invited the cutter to step forward, who on this occasion was the chief executive of the Reignwood Group, because owning the actual garden delivers the ultimate perk. She bent down and faffed a bit amid the thorns, selecting one of two bright red blooms from the foot of the stems twisting round the pergola. The severed rose was then placed on a blue pillow carried by the local verger, and off we processed.
Normally the rose is given to the Lord Mayor at at Mansion House, but this year that was unavailable so instead the handover was moved to the church of All Hallows-by-the-Tower. It's no distance away across Byward Street, but City ceremonial requires gravitas so the procession rerouted around the block instead. First the senior oarsman, then the verger with the rose pinned to his pillow, then aldermen with staffs and other uniformed officers, then invited guests and hangers-on. This was quite the sight.
Most passers-by stopped to gawp, or raised their phones to take a snap. Others breezed by oblivious as if a flower-led procession featuring men in breeches was perfectly normal. A few lucky tourists in the right place at the right time couldn't believe their luck and captured the event on video. The cushioned rose processed past a pub, several sets of revolving doors and an unsuspecting office worker stood outside a fire exit smoking a fag. The entire cavalcade paused twice to cross the main road, waiting for the lights to change rather than slipping through the malodorous subway. And after what had been almost ten minutes everyone disappeared inside All Hallows for the official service, which was invite only, where the Mayor duly accepted his peppercorn rent.
I wouldn't be able to go inside, nor did I have an reservation at Watermen's Hall for lunch, so wandered back alone to Seething Lane Gardens. All the costumed participants had gone, and the benches had been retaken by smokers, secretaries and scooter riders. I now had the opportunity to get up close to the pergola, mystified that it had supported two prime flowers and no other blooms anywhere along its thorny stems.
Closer inspection of the unplucked rose revealed it wasn't actually growing on the main stalk at all, but on a separate plant threaded in alongside. The key moment of the ceremony had been a piece of carefully choreographed theatre, perfectly executed, settling the City's debt for another year.
