Guy ShepherdChanging Times
Our man in Mayfair considers the challenges - and casualties - of the evolving landscape in his part of W1
Column by Guy Shepherd
Blooming politics. Fret not. I am not going to wax lyrical this month about Tory triumph, Labour humiliation, Liberal Democrat disappearance or Scottish Nationalist predictability. It is internal politics of which I wish to rant. It is the machinations of power within any size of community, once the democratic deeds are done, to elevate some and subjugate others, to which I ponder. That is life, political or otherwise.
My first area of analysis is, naturally, Mayfair. Not much has changed in the area judging by Thomas Hardy’s diary entry on this day, 28 May 1885, “Some wear jewels and feathers, some wear rags. All are caged birds; the only difference lies in the size of the cage”. The recent years of austerity have been bucked by the property business here in central London. Prices have rocketed skywards, buoyed by foreign investment and big brand retail. But it is at the expense of the independent, artisan, and smaller businesses. In a recent TV documentary on the subject, Trevor Pickett, the luggage impresario, and Paul Thomas, florist to the great and good, were both most vocal about their sadness at the difficulties arising from rental demands at their original Mayfair locations where they have been for 30 years, more or less.
In my own locality, rental reviews of 120 per cent are rumoured here and there, retailers try in vain to sell their leases and empty shops are left like ugly scars or missing teeth in a once beautiful visage. Those restauranteurs and shopkeepers that can stay, increasingly align themselves with High Street brands that neuter their potency, making more traditional or individual services through personality next to impossible. One example is Scott Collier; a pivotal, long standing (25 years) ambassador to our Market as a highly skilled photographer with Royalty, clubs and celebrity weddings a plenty on his curriculum vitae. His shop is owned by Snappy Snaps and it is now company policy for him to wear their regulation black uniform, bejewelled with a plastic badge declaring his Christian name, nickname or company number. Hardly the attire that Her Majesty or the Cavalry and Guards expect from a wonderful man who is usually bedecked in flamboyant threads, worn with panache and flair.
The polarity between land owners and small businesses is exasperated still further by the constant redevelopment of properties as, agonisingly slowly, Mayfair is rebranded in line with all the other characterless malls and arcades. In the tiny alley opposite my shop, once the entrance to creatives ‘venturethree’, 20 to 30 huge lorries five point turn every day, removing earth and adding concrete, to the detriment of my own stylised awning and that of the Polish-Mexican (Yes! Amazing!) restaurant across the road whilst leaving a veneer of filth over everything else. It has been going on for months, with no sign of abating, particularly as development surges through to Piccadilly, both sides of White Horse Street, when this stage is complete. It will take years. Given that it is the first major building project here for over 150 years, it is literally shaking us to the foundations where the furthest reaches of my basement already ripple with cracks, water leaks and aggressive rodents. This development, from a structural point of view, must be a good idea in the long term and, ironically, I cannot blame the land owners for their desire to create ongoing good business for themselves (it is no coincidence that the top ten British billionaires are largely land owners) but mourn the friends, artisans and skill sets that are swept aside in the shorter term to eventually be replaced with that same, same boring brand.
My brother and I have long since turned our backs on this (hopefully) temporary sadness. We deal in the happy. Since we arrived over eight years ago, our shop has morphed with the times. No longer the traditional jewellery shop with pretty displays and walk in clientele. “BY APPOINTMENT” (sadly not to the Royal family yet..) adorns our door in celebration of the privacy that the most discerning lovers of fine jewellery around this world now demand. Furthermore, this summer, we will remove the cabinets, bedeck our space in comfortable furnishings, blank the windows from the dusty hell outside and trap the brilliance of our sparkling heaven inside. The G&M salon is coming very soon. It is already so easy to lose oneself in our little oasis of calm; it will become easier still. Sitting here, writing this, I look at my fox cufflinks and smile as I am reminded of and am immediately transported to the other microcosm in my life, Wiltshire.
I have been lucky enough, through school, love and loss, to have lived on the east side of the county for about thirty years, on and off. My thatched cottage is tucked into the mouth of the Vale of Pewsey and, for those who have never been, it is one of the prettiest places in this beautiful country. If you don’t get the picture, here you are. A lush green valley meandering betwixt steep cliffs which hide the wild and bleak plains that rise and fall beyond eyesight. Sleepy villagers and canal dwellers are but occasionally interrupted by the Great Western which hurtles, like a lithe blue serpent, from London to Cornwall. But don’t take my word for it. Historically, many have agreed with me (or I them) for Millenia. Stonehenge is just a few miles south of the vale. You already know it from the postcard, book, drive by or classic Scooby-Doo episode, “The Warlock of Wimbledon” (An ancient warlock scares a teenage tennis player right before an important match, leading Scooby and the gang to a mystery at Stonehenge). But explore instead?
Cliff tops are alive with onetime Roman battlements, Wessex ramparts and near forgotten villages. In the next valley is Avebury, a henge of far more interest and intimacy than the tourist conveyor belt that is our most famous national treasure. Ancient tombs like West Kennett Long Barrow or gigantic man made mounds such as Silbury Hill are testimony to the political and spiritual powers of yesteryear. Everywhere you walk, whether amongst the summer’s subtle kaleidoscope of wild flowers upon the chalky heights or when trudging through the snow drifts of dark winter, when icy winds lash your cheeks, you feel and sense the awesome power that has made this place so attractive for so very long.
Running or walking through this ancient wilderness is one of my favourite escapes. Returning to political power, my part of the world remains bleak because the Ministry of Defence has the vast tracts of land to the south and west for the exercise and live firing ranges known as Salisbury Plain. On one such yomp, I was skirting around Easton Hill and down the rutted by-way towards the army camps, the frilly hem of their defensive petticoats, with distinctive white inlays and red trim (“Danger. Tanks Crossing”), barring any excursion to my right. The chalk downs ebb and flow in a seemingly endless array of massive fields, only intersected by occasional tracks, partridge pens and grain barns. Trees are scarce up on the top and it is a near perfect environment to let the mind relax, the muscles breath and the eyes digest pure beauty. Elegant birds feign broken wings to draw you away from exposed nests containing precious eggs, whilst hares box and cock pheasants duel at the right time of year.
As one wanders further into this English desert, the Ordnance Survey map becomes more essential. On this particular voyage, the temptation to bypass the footpath and skirt around a field’s borders became too overwhelming but, not too far into my detour, the approach of a newish Land Rover Defender 80, in farm rather than camouflage colours, and the peaked cap, Barbour-ed shoulders and ruddy face that lent out of the window, stopped me, literally, in my tracks. “This is private land. Fuck off!” Thoughts of political power rocketed to the forefront of my mind and their relative manifestations in Wiltshire and Mayfair. And if it hadn’t been for those pesky land owners, I would’ve gotten away with it. 
Guy Shepherd is a Director at GUY&MAX