Country house colonisation

Dyrham Park carried the aura of an elegant stately home — all gilt and hush. One room in particular leaned into that grandeur, with deep red damask walls rising to a high white cornice, two crystal chandeliers catching the light, oak wall panelling below, and a heavy marble fireplace anchoring one end. Portraits in gold frames watched over the space, old chairs sat along the wall, and a worn Persian style rug ran across the wooden floor. It had the hushed, roped off feel of a room meant to be admired rather than lived in.

Yet the beauty of that room, and of Dyrham Park more broadly, was tarred by Asafo flags placed everywhere like stalkers, black and white banners with stitched figures hung among family portraits they had no historical claim to. William Blathwayt, a pivotal figure in English administration during William III’s reign, managed the government’s operations from behind the scenes. His roles included Secretary at War and Auditor General of Plantation Revenues, making him an essential, though not widely recognized, contributor to the functioning of the empire. Upon marrying Mary Wynter, he acquired the Wynter family’s Gloucestershire estate, Dyrham, and invested heavily in transforming it into the Baroque mansion that overlooks the valley today. His son, John, achieved recognition as a musician. Centuries later, a descendant, Mary Blathwayt, hosted Emmeline Pankhurst at Eagle House, documenting details of the suffragette movement in her diary, which continues to be a valuable resource for historians. Dyrham Park is undeniably rich with English history. However, it is important to state clearly that Dyrham Park has no direct connection to Black people, a point that the accompanying tour seems to deliberately overlook.

What struck me most, wandering through Dyrham, was the sheer bewilderment of finding a British country house so thoroughly colonised by paeans to Fante culture that the Blathwayts themselves seemed to have become the incidental tenants of their own home. The staff at Dyrham have absorbed this new gospel with such conviction that I decided to test the waters, telling an attendant, half in jest, that I loved how much the exhibition focused on the Fante. She agreed with me, without a flicker of irony. It was in that moment that the truth revealed itself: the British have become so ashamed of their own history that the only way they can bear to discuss it is by trading it in for someone else’s story. 

This is not an error of curation. Hilary McGrady, the National Trust’s director-general, told Times Radio that she wants the organisation to be “genuinely for everyone,” so that anyone who visits its properties “can see themselves at our places”. Storytelling, in other words, has quietly displaced history as the trust’s actual mission. Which explains, rather neatly, why the attendant nodded along with my joke. When the goal is narrative rather than record, any story will do, including a stray one about Cape Coast Castle wearing an English gentleman’s coat of arms.

Therefore, instead of focusing on the Blathwayt family, the tour introduces exhibits related to Ghana. The initial display features a booklet titled “Journeys: Asafo Flags from the Karun Thakar Collection” This booklet explains the Asafo companies, Fante militia units, and their shrines — known as posuban — some of which were designed to resemble European forts on the coast, an architectural detail that might interest some visitors. There is a notable irony in the exhibition’s emphasis on the African origins of these flags, given that the shrines they represent are modeled after castles and European forts constructed to house garrisons and, in many instances, captives awaiting shipment. The exhibition does not explore the question of why a symbol of Fante military pride would adopt the architectural style of Cape Coast Castle or Elmina, nor does it consider what it signifies that the structures of oppression became the basis for the shrines of the oppressed.

The booklet also touches upon Ghanaian independence and includes the now-expected acknowledgment of European enslavement of Africans, presented with an air of stating the obvious. However, it omits less comfortable historical facts, such as the practice of Fante people offering victims at shrines like Nanapom Mpow, along with the traditions of taking the heads of defeated enemies as trophies, and selling enemies into slavery. A historical account of the flags that fails to address the society that used them, or the actual purpose of the forts they imitate, cannot be considered a comprehensive historical narrative. It resembles a performance masquerading as scholarly research.

Further inside the house, in the Slop’t Room, a screen displays an interview with historian Gus Casely-Hayford discussing the exploitation of the Asante people under colonial rule. He does not mention that Britain’s 1874 intervention officially ended slavery on the Gold Coast. Nor does he note that the Asante had their own system of tributary states, extracting resources and people from neighboring regions, similar to Roman practices in Gaul. Between 1701 and 1774, the Asantehene’s armies conquered all polities within a hundred to two hundred and fifty miles that posed any perceived competition. The Asante Empire exhibited the same expansionist tendencies as Britain’s, operating with considerably less compunction. It is a peculiar approach to history that condemns one empire while remaining silent about the other.

Adding another layer to this narrative, Mr. Casely-Hayford, who appears on screen as a representative of those who were exploited, is himself a descendant of Richard Brew, a slave trader who married the daughter of another slave trader, John Currantee. This lineage complicates the simplistic portrayal of victimhood. The exhibition seems intent on framing slavery as an act exclusively perpetrated by Europe against Africa, a concluded event with a clear perpetrator and victim. The reality, however, is more complex, involving participation from both sides and, quite literally, intersecting within the family featured in the film.

Next, a laminated card poses the question, “What do we know about William Blathwayt and slavery?” with a tone suggesting an impending indictment. Yet, the provided two paragraphs offered nothing but silence on involvement in slavery. The most significant accusation levelled at him is that he considered investing in Jamaican cocoa but decided against it due to his cautious nature. This suggests prudence, not complicity.

Near the old staircase, a sign warns that a pair of carved figures upstairs, depicting enslaved men, may be upsetting. There is no discussion regarding the nature of these figures as objects, their creation, or their intended meaning for an eighteenth-century audience. Visitors are merely informed that Blathwayt and his uncle, Thomas Povey, who shipped them to Blathwayt, sought to display their status. A cautionary label has effectively replaced a critical examination.

The National Trust has not enhanced English history; instead, it has obscured it

The Balcony Room states that approximately 12.5 million Africans were transported across the Atlantic into bondage, a fact that no one disputes and that no honest historical account should minimise. What is not mentioned is that Britain later expended over £12 million and significant naval resources over nearly a century to suppress the trade. Nor is it mentioned that African rulers were active participants in supplying enslaved people and fiercely opposed suppression, most notably Oba Kosoko of Lagos, who along with his chiefs built his wealth on slavery. The room concludes with a commitment to increasing the prominence of Black voices at Dyrham Park in the future, a promise that disrespects both the historical contributions of the Blathwayts and the labour of white working-class people who built the estate. 

Yet, the most striking aspect is how readily this narrative has been accepted. Visitor comments reveal positive reception of the Asafo flags and appreciation for the slavery panels. The National Trust has not enhanced English history; instead, it has obscured it.