Natasha Hastings on Magic, Resilience & the Frost Fairs of London

Europe’s ‘Little Ice Age’ ran from around 1300 to 1850, with a particularly wintry period occurring during the ‘long seventeenth century.’ Average global temperatures reduced by two degrees Celsius during this time, leading to fascinating stories about its effects. Henri IV of France realised his beard had iced over as he slept, wine froze solid in barrels, and Shakespeare famously wrote of ‘the winter of our discontent.’

Between 1551 and 1700, the River Thames in London froze over twelve times, allowing people to walk on it. Enterprising traders realised money could be made from such occasions, and Frost Fairs were held on the ice, consisting of tents and stalls erected on the frozen river, with entertainment on display. In 1608, when the first Frost Fair was held, it gave modest offerings of shoes, fruit, and the services of a barber. But it was the Great Frost of 1683-4 that led to one of the most spectacular Frost Fairs ever to be held, called ‘Great Britain’s Wonder.’ Ice that crept across the earth, lakes and rivers was the most severe in England ever recorded, reaching a thickness of eleven inches in London. In my novel, The Frost Fair, the Great Frost is so cold that:

‘People grew used to waking up each morning with frost cobwebbing their cheeks, and stopped being shocked that, even indoors, white mist would gush from their mouths every time they spoke, as if the cold had changed them all into different creatures entirely.’

At the height of its popularity, the Frost Fair of 1683-4 is estimated to have spanned from London Bridge to Vauxhall. Tea, chocolate, coffee, and beer was sold; so was roasted oxen, pies, oysters, gingerbread, plum cake, and roast beef. Visitors could be entertained by football, horse racing, bull and bear baiting, fox hunting, skating, sledging, dancing, puppet plays, knife-swallowing, and fire-eating. It must have been a dizzying experience to step into this fleeting, ice-encrusted world and see such spectacles.

I first learned about the Frost Fairs of London by looking at pictures of little treasures remaining from the period. These include a tiny glass mug that looks as if it has been carved from ice itself, a ticket printed for Charles II and his court when they visited, a still-shiny silver spoon, dated and engraved, and ballad-sheets from printing presses wheeled onto the ice. Just like ticket stubs, wristbands, and tour clothing of today, these objects speak of a precious time visitors were keen to remember for the rest of their days. I remember thinking that the Great Frost of 1683-4 was a magical setting for a story. The emotional core and plot of my novel, The Frost Fair, however, arose in a surprising way.

When I was twenty-one, I developed pneumonia. It was an illness that made my asthma severe, and I had to stay in hospital for a while. At night, stressed, bored, and restless, with only the sound of beeping machines and footsteps for company, I was alone with my thoughts. 

Solitude and darkness do strange things to the mind, allowing us to glimpse enchantments we might have otherwise overlooked. I found myself slipping into the same dream, night after night: that of standing in the middle of the frozen River Thames and tipping my head up to see stars glimmering in the sky like jewels as the cold wind stung my cheeks. After waking, I’d scribble down what I could remember of these dreams in pencil, in the back of the books my family brought me during visiting hours. 

I became greedy for magic, hungry to discover more wonders of the Frost Fairs of London. During the day, it became a comfort to imagine exploring it, taking part in all the entertainment on offer. At night, I started conjuring up a magical Other Frost Fair, which only appeared after dark. In my mind, the Other Frost Fair was formed of tents made of frost and ice, where all manner of potions and spells were sold. I decided it housed Frost Beasts: enchanted creatures made of ice, sapphires and frost, and Frost Folk: mysterious people with snowflakes all over their skin and frosted-over eyes, patrolling the river. A character in my book describes the Other Frost Fair as follows:

‘The Other Frost Fair is created from magic and sea smoke; it’s a living, breathing thing, with traces of ancient magic. It’s as curious as the breath before song, and as strange as the glimmer of moonlight on water. Yet it exists, and you’ll visit it tonight.’

It became apparent to me that the cruel beauty of the Great Frost was the perfect place to set a story about adventure, resilience, and courage, during a time when I needed all these things, too. By the time I left hospital, I knew I needed to write the book that would become The Frost Fair.

After I graduated and moved to London, I’d cross the River Thames twice a day on my bus commute to my office job. It felt as if the river were encouraging me to keep going as I balanced a laptop on my knees and typed the first few drafts of The Frost Fair. Memories whispered in the tide as I walked up and down the river’s grainy edges on weekends. During winter, my hair wet from early morning swimming, I’d hear ice in it crack while walking to the bus and think of Henri IV’s beard. At these times, the past was so close to me I could taste it.

Despite its beautiful winters, the Little Ice Age brought with it a great deal of suffering. There was a sharp increase in famine, due to harvest failure and the increased death of livestock, as well as a great deal of death and illness brought on by the harsh weather. Yet there are also tales of resilience during this period. Thick sea ice in the Arctic could have ruined Dutch whalers’ business in the seventeenth century, but instead led to a surprising industry boom after merchants discovered how to boil blubber aboard ships. Farmers forced to move into different food production due to harvest failure discovered that diverse crop and manure led to better grain yield. And a good amount of art from this period embraced the chaos of the cold beautifully, including Henry Purcell’s evocative aria, The Cold Song and Pieter Bruegel’s painting, Hunters in the Snow. 

Editing The Frost Fair during the start of the coronavirus pandemic felt peculiar. Death became a national conversation in a way it hadn’t for years. Witnessing the exceptional courage and resilience of NHS staff and key workers was a profound experience, as was glimpsing everyday kindnesses from neighbours, strangers, and friends. The Frost Fair was my light in the gloom as I chipped away at it while shielding, having been classed as clinically extremely vulnerable.

Living through this time while reading about the Little Ice Age heightened the twin themes of love and loss that occur throughout The Frost Fair. Though I wrote the novel as a children’s book, adults are its intended audience, too, partly because of these themes. Thomasina, one of my characters, best describes how I felt while writing the manuscript:

‘She looked up at the vast, black sky above and thought of all the people, generations before her time, who’d seen the same sky as she had, had loved and lost like she had, and had felt the bitter cold as she did now, biting against her cheeks. She wondered when the next frost like this would come, and who’d be there to see it.’

To me, the Frost Fairs that emerged during the Little Ice Age show us there is beauty to be found in the sharpest parts of our existence - even when we are cold to the bone, and the sunlight feels so very fleeting, and hope seems hard to cling onto. We can endure hard times by seizing joy whenever possible – just like people did centuries ago at the Frost Fair, and especially during that strange, enchanting winter that was the Great Frost.