For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron

In 1788 London, a child was born to Captain John Byron and Catherine Gordon, the captain’s second wife.  This child would grow up to be not just a poet, but a key writer in the Romantic Movement which was around 1800-1850.

Plaque depicting where Byron was born - now John Lewis
department store Bond Street London.

The 6^th Baron Byron was born in London but spent his childhood in Aberdeen. At the age of ten he inherited his great-uncle’s title and the family home Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. His mother being very proud; took her son to the newly acquired home, but it was in such disarray that they leased it out.

Throughout his life he had numerous lovers including a somewhat incestuous relationship with his half-sister Augusta Leigh.  Byron pursued the married Lady Caroline Lamb and engaged in a public affair. He married her cousin Anne, but the marriage ended in ruins as he wasn’t quite the marrying kind, which is hardly so surprising if you consider his ancestry. His father married for money twice and added the additional surname Gordon to claim his wife’s estate. After this the poet was known as George Byron Gordon. When he inherited his title he dropped the extra surname and was known as Lord Byron. After the death of his mother in law, her will required that he take on the name Noel to receive any inheritance, so he then became Lord Noel Byron and his wife was sometimes known as Lady Noel Byron. She however succeeded to the Barony of Wentworth and became Lady Wentworth. Confused? Nobody could make this stuff up; you’d fry your brain trying.

Byron was also friends with the Shelleys.  You remember Percy and Mary from blogs of the past? Well he caught up with them in Geneva after fleeing the country to get away from rumours of incest and sodomy.  He also caught up with Mary’s sister Claire Clairmont but they had been more than familiar with each other in London. He travelled through Italy and then to Greece where his life ended one tragic day at the age of 36.

I can imagine Lord Byron as a finger pointing winker.  The kind of man that would pluck a carnation cheekily from a flower stall for his jacket lapel and smile at the flower girl as payment. Or perhaps even kiss her hand and leave her swooning and giggling in delight.

The type of poetry that Byron wrote is narrative and in some cases lengthy. The poem Don Juan has more than 1600 lines and is unfortunately unfinished.  When the first two cantos were published, it was criticized and labelled immoral, but very popular none the less. The poem of his that I like best though is ‘She Walks in Beauty’ because it borders on truth. It’s said to be based on a moment in his life, just a single solitary moment that creates an image of a beautiful woman and brings together shades of dark and light. It’s slightly sombre, but extremely well put together. When you read the poem, you realise why this man remains one of the greatest British poets.

So I ventured out to take a picture of the Byron statue at Hyde Park corner. I was slightly confused as to where to find it but luckily I was able to engage the help of Kevin – a TFL Inspector, and his smartphone. He escorted me to the statue because he was curious to see it himself.  I’m not quite sure whose idea it was to put in on a traffic island in busy Park Lane, but I managed to get across the road unscathed.  After snapping the pic it took me another five minutes to get off the island.  I was beginning to feel like Gilligan.

Byron's statue, Hyde Park corner - thanks Kevin

To sum up Byron’s life and his contribution to literature isn’t something you can do lightly. I’m still trying to understand the whole name thing. But, even when you’re a Lord, money talks and if you want to maintain your womanising ways, the more you have the better the alibi you can buy. I could say a lot more about Byron and his wicked ancestry, but for now I must tell you that Once upon  a time in a few different countries, there was a poet lived a life that dare I say, was stranger than fiction.