In a move that has left heritage experts reaching for the smelling salts and Brexiters sharpening their pitchforks, the Bayeux Tapestry is to make a triumphant, if temporary, pilgrimage to these sceptred isles. Yes, that 70-metre long embroidered account of Norman conquest, a masterpiece of medieval propaganda, is packing its woollen bags for a London holiday. The British Library will host the exhibit in 2025, a cultural exchange designed to ‘strengthen ties’ between perfidious Albion and our froggy cousins.
Naturally, this has gone down like a lead zeppelin in certain quarters. The Telegraph’s comments section is currently experiencing a collective aneurysm, with demands that the tapestry be returned permanently, as it’s technically about us. Which it is. It’s a 950-year-old epic poem in thread, chronicling how William the Conqueror, a man with a Norman accent and a taste for absolute power, gave Harold Godwinson a very bad day at Hastings. It’s our history, damn it, stitched into linen by nuns probably, and now we have to grovel for a loan?
But let’s not get bogged down in historical accuracy. The real story here is the sheer, magnificent absurdity of a cultural exchange between two nations who have spent the last millennium alternating between invading each other and having a jolly good snigger at the other’s expense. Macron, that Gallic Gatsby, is lending us his national treasure as a gesture of goodwill, no doubt hoping we’ll forget about the fishing quotas and the fact that he once called Brexit a ‘product of lies’. It’s a tango of diplomatic cynicism, and we’re all being asked to waltz.
The British Library, for its part, is no doubt buzzing with excitement. Expect the usual curatorial platitudes about ‘dialogue’ and ‘shared heritage’. I can already smell the press release: ‘The Bayeux Tapestry is a testament to the interconnectedness of European history, a narrative woven across borders…’ And so on, until you want to vomit. But let’s be honest: the real reason we want this thing in London is so that Boris Johnson can go and stare at it while making ‘1066 and All That’ jokes, and so that schoolchildren can take selfies next to the bit where Harold gets an arrow in the eye. Because that’s what culture is about now.
And what of the tapestry itself? This fragile, priceless survivor of revolutions, wars, and a good deal of French neglect is being shipped over the Channel like a hyperactive tourist. It will require a climate-controlled crate, a security detail, and possibly a platoon of textile conservators armed with magnifying glasses and anti-static brushes. One wonders if it knows what it’s in for. They say it’s going in a new gallery, specially designed. I say it’s going into a fishbowl, where we can all prod it with our umbrellas and complain about the price of the audio guide.
But let’s not be too cynical. There is, buried under the avalanche of political posturing, a genuine wonder to this artefact. It is a history book without words, a piece of storytelling so vivid that it makes the entire Norman conquest feel like a bloody episode of Game of Thrones. It is, in short, magnificent. And seeing it in the flesh, without the usual trip to Caen, is a privilege. So thank you, France, for lending us your greatest hit. We promise to give it back. Eventually. After we’ve had a good long look at how you beat us at war. Because that’s what this is, really: a reminder of a time when a Frenchman was a threat, not a source of cheap wine and existentialism.
Still, mark my words: the moment that tapestry arrives, there will be a headline about how it’s a ‘wake-up call’ for British tourism, or a ‘chance to lead Europe in culture’. And we will all nod sagely, buy our tickets, and queue for hours. Because deep down, we still care about things that last. Even if they remind us that we lost.
God save the tapestry. And the queen, I suppose.
