why British people really love lions
Mia Horton Lions are part of British life, part of British history, part of British prehistory. We have feared them, we have been eaten by them, we have killed them, we have gloated over them in circuses and zoos, we have used them to represent our kings, we have used them to boast about national glory, we have put their images on flags, we have made statues of them, we have driven them in the direction of extinction, we have killed them for sport, we have cried over their plight, we have been inspired to see them in new and different ways, we have photographed them and we have vowed to cherish them forever.
There may be a few contradictions in there, but that’s lions for you. No one is wholly rational about lions. Thirty years ago I had a close shave with a big male, the memory of which gives me the willies to this day; I love lions and seek them out whenever I can.
Cave lions lived in this country until about 12,000 years ago. They’re now globally extinct: a different species but closely related to modern lions – who once lived in Spain, France, Italy and Greece. The retreat of the lions is the story of the advance of humanity.
Stories of lions are part of our inheritance. The first labour of Hercules was to slay Nemean Lion; Aesop told the fable of the lion and the mouse and Androcles won a lion’s friendship by removing a thorn from his paw.
Lions are fierce and beautiful, so they became a symbol of the human love for conquest and victory. But there’s something else. Unlike other cats, unlike all other large carnivores, they are strongly sexually dimorphic: a mature male looks very different to a female.
That’s because lions live a very intense social life, the only big cat that does so, and a pronounced difference between the sexes is crucial. It’s a trait that appeals to humans very strongly, especially when the humans happen to be male. The male lion with his huge mane is not only an embodiment of masculinity – he also seems to be wearing a crown. He’s royal. He’s the king of the jungle: the fiercest and the best. All human kings want to be just like that.
King Richard I – the Lionheart – was the first English king to adopt the three lions as his personal crest. He did so in the 12th century, and his three lions passant guardant – as they’re described in heraldry – can be seen on the Royal Standard above Buckingham Palace when the Queen is in residence – along with the lion rampant of Scotland; the Scots took on the symbol a century later.
Our rulers wished to see themselves as lions: their subjects wished to share their leonine majesty. After Nelson won the Battle of Trafalgar, the enemies’ cannons were melted down and made into four statues of lions: they’re in Trafalgar Square, where else? It’s been claimed there are 10,000 images of lions in London alone: more can be found in many other cities, often outside the town hall.
But as the British extended their colonies into Africa and India, real lions became a problem, especially to cattle farmers, and they were regarded as vermin. In 1898-99 the building of the Kenya Uganda railway was threatened by two lions: it’s said the pair managed to kill and eat 135 railway workers. The tale is told in a book called The Man-eaters of Tsavo by Lt Col John Henry Patterson, who eventually shot them both.
Lions were part of public life. They were held in zoos from around the 18th century, and before that they were often in private menageries. Until recently zoo lions were kept in small bare cages. I remember visiting one in Bristol in the 1950s: the lion turned his back and majestically peed all over me. These days zoo lions are kept in more spacious enclosures; in 2016 the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh – a great shooter – opened London Zoo’s Land of the Lions.
In the early 20th century, when travel became a more comfortable business, at least for the rich, killing lions and other species for pleasure was regarded as legitimate: it was bold and brave and rid the earth of fearsome creatures. British people embraced the idea of big game hunting. There are two stuffed lions in the Trophy Room at Sandringham; you may inspect them yourself when the place is open for business again.
But our attitude to lions was changing. In the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz the cowardly lion is sweet and vulnerable, loved as much in Britain as in the United States. In The Chronicles of Narnia by C S Lewis, Aslan represents kindness, wisdom and generosity – as well as a certain ferocity to enemies.
In the early 1960s there was a major shift in the way we look at lions, the way we look at all big fierce animals, and the way we look at all nature. This centred around George Adamson, born in India to British parents and educated in Cheltenham. He became a wildlife warden in Kenya and married Joy, who came from what is now the Czech Republic.
Joy’s book Born Free told of an idyll in which Elsa the lioness shared their lives and their bed. Photographs and films of this extraordinary intimacy went, to use a modern term, viral. Life with the lions was gorgeous, and deeply enviable: lions were there to love and be loved by.
It was not quite the way it looked. Elsa came into the Adamsons’ lives because George shot her mother. As the story continued, other lions were shot and there were related attacks by half-tame lions on humans. George and Joy separated; both were later murdered.
Partly because of this story, ordinary tourists started travelling to Africa in search of lions; today it’s a bucket-list staple. People go looking for ferocity and often find gentleness, finding a sleepy pride of lions in a great furry heap of contentment.
When the American dentist Walter Palmer shot a lion called Cecil with a bow and arrow, Britain was one of the loudest voices in the international uproar that followed. We now accept that lions are ferocious, gentle – and vulnerable. We know that if we’re not careful we will lose them altogether.
We continue to celebrate lions: “Three lions on a shirt!” sang Baddiel and Skinner on their 1996 football anthem. We send a team called the British & Irish Lions to tour one of the former colonies. England cricketers wear three lions on their caps. British Olympic athletes have been branded as Team GB, and their badge is a lion’s head in red, white and blue.
We have always liked to think that lions represent the real us. Perhaps they do. They are capable of great violence but they love family ties and revel in their times of peace and gentleness – and in the end, they’re a lot more vulnerable than we would like to think.
The History of the World in 100 Animals by Simon Barnes is published by Simon and Schuster, out now
