In her novel There are Rivers in the Sky, Elif Shafak traces the life of a single drop of water from ancient Mesopotamia, through centuries and across continents to the present day. Following the life of water is an appealing idea, though on the long journey of that drop we encounter water that is anything but vital: in London in 1854 water infected with the comma-shaped bacteria known as Vibrio cholerae is estimated to have killed 10,000 people.
Cholera outbreaks were not uncommon in Victorian London and were often caused by unsanitary conditions at the public water pumps upon which many relied. Investigations at the time found that water supplied by unscrupulous private companies was often the cause.
It was in response to this public health crisis that in 1859, a group of philanthropists set up the Metropolitan Free Drinking Fountain Association. It unveiled the first clean public drinking fountain outside St Sepulchre-without-Newgate Church in the City of London. The use of innovative in-built filters ensured that the water supplied was safer to drink. In the years that followed, the association opened several more clean water sources across London, and were joined in their mission by other philanthropic associations and individuals.
There was often a moral bent to the intentions of the first fountain donors. Many were Quakers or otherwise involved in the Temperance movement and were, in part, motivated by the desire to stop the working classes drinking beer as a safer alternative to water. In 21st Century London, we don’t have to worry about the cleanliness of water from our taps (or resort to beer unless we want to), but a conversation about private ownership of water and the morals and standards of those who provide it is again taking place.
It’s also true to say that hydration on the move is very much part of contemporary life, much more so that when I was young, when barely anyone carried the now-ubiquitous portable bottles. Combine that with concerns about plastic waste from disposables and it’s no surprise that public water fountains are becoming a feature of London town planning again. Six years ago, Sir Sadiq Khan installed 100 new fonts at locations around the capital.
What, then, of London’s original Victorian water fountains, many of which were decommissioned and fell into disrepair? I can remember seeing them as a child in parks and outside stations, their marble sinks more likely to be stuffed with litter than splashed with drops of fresh water.
With that in mind, I was interested to hear about the work that the Heritage of London Trust (HOLT) is doing to restore London’s historic drinking fountains – 16 so far, and eight coming up. HOLT’s director, Dr Nicola Stacey, told me that they “involve local communities in all our projects from beginning to end, so they have a chance to see the conservation work up close. In the case of fountains, many local people remember drinking from them as children, but have seen them switched off and neglected for decades. There’s a brilliant ‘switching-on’ moment, which brings a huge uplift for the community and a sense of delight across the generations.”
That sense of ownership echoes the intentions of the Victorian philanthropists who set up the first drinking fountains. I went to visit the one at St Sepulchre early on a summer evening (pictured, top). The crossroads where it sits was busy with people rushing in and out of pubs and restaurants and home from work.
The Old Bailey loomed large to my right, though when the fountain was first unveiled, it wasn’t there. It was then the site of the infamous Newgate Prison. With Smithfield Market and several City guilds based nearby, this would have been an ideal site for footfall. It’s no wonder that at its peak St Sepulchre was used by 7000 people a day.
Today, the fountain sits humbly against the railings. Pink granite pillars topped by an arch enclose the marble shell from which water once flowed. Underneath, a dedication to its founders. At the base, an exhortation to users to “Replace the cups”. No plastic water bottles back then, though the cups, which I’ve seen chained to the font in photographs, aren’t there today and the fountain isn’t operational. HOLT have plans to restore it soon, but it’s not yet possible to fill my bottle.
Keen to find a water fountain I could use, so I headed east along the A40. On my way, I took a detour to Red Lion Square, known for its association with Bertrand Russell, among others, but also notable for being one of the 70 or so London gardens laid out by Fanny Wilkinson, a Suffragist and pioneering landscape gardener, who has recently been commemorated in the form of a statue attached to a water fountain in Southfields.
My final destination was Guildford Place, at the end of Lamb’s Conduit Street, just by Great Ormond Street Hospital. Walking through that part of town, busy with legal chambers and the bars that draw their employees after hours, I almost missed the fountain (pictured above) until I turned and saw it, with my back to Coram’s Fields. Built in 1870 in gentle white stone, it depicts the Woman of Samaria, who according to the Bible, Jesus accepted water from, although she was considered a social outcast.
It’s another echo of the religious intentions of many early fountain donors, but it also brings my thoughts back to Shafak’s novel and the idea that water, wherever we find it, completes its cycle over and over again, with the molecules in a single drop lasting through centuries. In London, as we once again look at who owns our drinking water, it’s an idea worth a few minutes’ contemplation. That is what I gave it, as I took out my bottle and prepared to fill it.
Elin Morgan is a writer and communications professional from East London. Follow her on Bluesky.
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