This gripping guest blog, in conjunction with our current Arctic exhibition, has been generously provided by historian James Evans. James is author of  Merchant Adventurers: The Voyage of Discovery that Transformed Tudor England.

There ‘remained only one way to discover’, the Bristol merchant Robert Thorne told fellow Englishmen early in the 16^th century, ‘which is into the north’.

Officials and merchants had seen the wealth amassed in Spain and Portugal by the discovery of new routes across the ocean. But while the Pope tried to reserve all non-Christian lands to the Iberian nations, the English insisted this could apply only to territories reached by sailing south.

To the unexplored north England claimed a God-given right. After all, John Cabot had discovered North America for the English in the 15^th century, soon after Columbus’s epochal voyage. And many thought there must be a passage here to ‘Cathay’, as China was then known, to match that in the south – because land on the earth was bound to be balanced. How else would it spin straight?

Robert Thorne, Orbis Universalis Descriptio. London, 1582. British Library C.23.b.35.

Thorne wrote a tract, and drew a map, to illustrate his ideas. He argued the English could sail due north, across the Pole, then descend towards undiscovered lands in the Pacific. He admitted that many considered this impossible, the sea in the far north being ‘all ice’, the cold ‘so great that none can suffer it’. But others believed ice formed only near land, while open ocean, across the top of the world, would remain clear.

Thorne tried to organise a voyage to test the idea, but died before he could. Not until Henry VIII had died too did power pass to men who truly believed in the value of exploration. Under Edward VI, Cabot’s son, Sebastian, was lured back from Spain – and it was he who oversaw, in 1553, a major English attempt to find a northern passage.

Which way would they go? North-west? North-east? Or directly north? The watching Spanish ambassador fretted, rightly, that England was ‘seeking the road to the Indies’. But he didn’t know whether the north could offer one. No one did. The lack of knowledge about this part of the world is shown on a map made for Henry VIII by Jean Rotz, on which huge empty spaces reveal the ignorance which existed concerning the north parts of the world.

Jean Rotz, [Double hemisphere world map], from A Boke of Idrography, London, 1545. British Library Royal MS 20 E IX

The 1553 crews went north-east, hoping a passage this way would be an ‘easy matter’. But of course it wasn’t. The world was in the grip of what has become known as the ‘Little Ice Age’, and ice, to the north, was more extensive than it is now. It was an extraordinary venture, which began trade with Russia via the White Sea – a region carefully charted by William Borough, who sailed as a teenager – and it set an important example. But it failed to find a northern passage.

The ship belonging to the expedition captain, Sir Hugh Willoughby, became hopelessly lost. The land ‘lay not’, he wrote in frustration, ‘as the globe made mention’. His men tried to see out the winter. His log, today in the British Library, records their desperate final weeks, locked in what it describes as a ‘haven of death’.

 Sir Hugh Willoughby, [Extract from a journal of a journey to Cathay, c. 1554], British Library Cotton MS Otho E VIII

The company set up then in England, whose monopoly extended across the north, continued to look north-east. Further attempts were made by Stephen Borough (William’s older brother), and later by Arthur Pet and Charles Jackman. But the landmass pushed them further north, as they moved east, and the ice proved impenetrable.

Attention, in England, switched to the north-west, where Martin Frobisher thought discovery ‘the only thing of the World’ left undone to make a man rich and famous. (The map-maker Abraham Ortelius produced the first Atlas in 1570 – the Theatrum Orbis Terrarum – and his page on the Arctic north showed clear passages to both north-west and north-east.)

Abraham Ortelius, 'Typus Orbis Terrarum', from Theatrum Orbis Terrarum, Antwerp, 1570-84.

The British Library's free exhibition Lines in the Ice: Seeking the Northwest Passage, is now open.

In the 'Roaring Twenties' US tourists flocked to the UK in their droves to sample and rediscover their literary language through famous sites of English literature.

Rand McNally, A Pictorial Chart of English Literature, Compiled by Ethel Earl Wylie. Chicago, 1929. British Library Maps 1080.(78.).

Catering to this audience, the American map publisher Rand McNally produced a chart of English literature in 1929. It visualised England and Wales almost as if they were a theme park, a literary Alton Towers.  Think ‘Shakespeare Land’ or ‘The Bronte adventure’. Note, however, the absence of Joyce and D.H. Lawrence. This theme park did not admit the avant garde. No 'Lawrence Log-flume' here thank you very much.

The map is especially interesting when placed alongside another tourist map by Rand McNally, produced about 50 years later for Brits making the reciprocal journey to Florida in the 1980s (but by that time by plane, not passenger liner).

Rand McNally, Orlando including Walt Disney World [detail]. Chicago, 1994. British Library Maps 220.a.737 

Walt Disney World opened in 1971 and quickly became the most popular tourist destination in the entire world. In contrast to the 1929 literary England and Wales adventure, Walt Disney World is not shown as a theme park. It is shown as a normal, straightforward town with roads, bridges, boundaries and transit stops. There is essentially nothing to distinguish it from the nearby areas of Kissimmee or St Cloud.

This is the great thing about maps. They are incredibly focused on their purpose. The 1980s British tourist needed the map to find his and her way. The American tourist in the late 1920s wanted to savour and relive the experience of literary England through the map. Both maps worked their magic with consummate ease.

A History of the 20th Century in 100 Maps is published by the British Library

Two centuries ago Britain became re-interested in the search for the Northwest Passage, the so-called ‘mariners' philosopher's stone’. By 1815 it had, or at least should have, become abundantly clear (from the centuries of failure) that an Arctic route to the Indies was not a viable trade route, and besides, Britain no longer really needed it, having broken the Iberian monopoly over world sea routes. 

But there were other motivations. Britain did not like to be beaten. Indeed it had just beaten Napoleon at Waterloo. It was top dog, pumped and full of confidence, and with an inordinate number of spare men, ships and equipment after the end of war with France.

The draw of the Arctic is visible in the newspapers, the literature, and the art of the time. The Arctic vision coloured – or rather - chilled Europe. John Ross and Edward Parry’s expedition of 1818 was the first such large venture of this new age. Preparations on the Thames at Deptford became a public spectacle. The expedition came to nought (though had Ross continued in the direction he’d been going history might have judged him rather better). The account of the voyage would nevertheless become a bestseller, lavishly produced often with gilt edged pages and crisp colour lithographs.

'First communication with the natives of Prince Regent's Bay...' from John Ross , A Voyage of Discovery …enquiring into the possibility of a North-West Passage. London, 1819.

Other literary works cast the Arctic infatuation in a different light. Mary Shelley’s 'Frankenstein', published the year of Ross’s expedition, tapped into the fears of unease of the frozen wastes in a similar way medieval maps had placed the unspeakable monsters of legend at the world’s edges. In the story, the monster disappears into the darkness.

Lynd Ward, wood engraved illustration for Frankenstein (New York: Smith & Haas, 1934).

This horror and awe was expressed differently by the Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich’s arresting 1823-4 canvas showing the crushing of HMS Griper, one of the ships of Parry’s 1819 expedition. This drastic and uncomfortable painting summed up the power of nature expressed through the ice. The image was perhaps a bit too much for British society who had hitherto positioned themselves far more centrally in the story of the Arctic than the pathetic little ship, right of centre, about to be destroyed by the ice. 

Caspar David Friedrich, Das Eismeer, oil on canvas, 1823-4. Kunsthalle, Hamburg 

The British Library's free exhibition Lines in the Ice: Seeking the Northwest Passage is now open.

 

One of the most important modern purposes of maps is apparently helping people to walk from one place to another. It is probably the Ordnance Survey’s fault, putting pictures of ramblers on the front covers of their 1930s tourist maps, almost like a serving suggestion on the front of a cook book. ‘Here’s what you can use these maps for’.

Ellis Martin, cover illustration for Ordnance Survey "One Inch" Map, c.1930

It seems incredible to us now, but it was only at this time that maps really started to assume this particular use. In the 1920s and 1930s more people had more leisure time (and paid holidays), of course there wasn’t a big war to be fighting, and there were more leisure aids such as maps to assist them. The Rambler’s Association was formed in 1935.

50 years later, the whole experience of walking with a map was commemorated by the artist Richard Long in a piece of post-modern art called ‘Hundred Mile Walk’. He tried to capture his experience of a walk by using photographs, words, and the map.

Richard Long, 'Hundred Mile Walk', 1970-1. Mixed media (Tate).

It is an incredibly perceptive piece because it reflects upon the limitations of using words and images to adequately convey our experiences. It also makes us think about the reasons why we should wish to capture such experiences in the first place.

In the 1970s more people were watching television than walking around. Peoples’ experience of nature was increasingly via other media. The Ordnance Surveyor Landranger map had become as appropriate on the gallery wall in the 1970s as in the rambler’s hand in the 1920s.

A History of the 20th Century in 100 Maps is published by the British Library

The history of maps and the history of exploration used to be one and the same. In the mid 19th century, when the first national map libraries and geographical societies were created and old maps began to be looked at and collected more systematically, their purpose was to illustrate the apparently ever improving knowledge of the geography of the world thanks to the intrepid explorers of the past.

There are many people who continue to hold on to this interpretation of maps, and that’s fine. There was a point in the past where European knowledge of the Arctic, for example, was worse than it is now, and we can claim today to know more about it than we ever have, even to the point of being able to map the Arctic sea-bed geology.

The problem with it is that it simplifies things and gives the impression of an irrepressible march towards a state of perfect knowledge. Notions of progress and determinism are more problematic today. We move backwards, sideways, at various paces in different circumstances. At various stages in their 16th century quest for a Northwest Passage, explorers such as Martin Frobisher and John Davis headed down dead ends and in wrong directions. Henry Hudson wasn’t looking for his eponymous bay when he stumbled into it. The path towards discovery was never a smooth one. In the Arctic, the very path changes with the ebb and flow of the ice.

The idea of a progressively more perfect march of maps also makes the rather large assumption that mapmakers were absolutely always cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die doing their best to tell the truth (as they saw it) in their maps. We can see evidence to the contrary in two cartographic treasures of the Tudor quest for the Northwest Passage.

George Best, [World Map], from 'A true discourse of the late voyages of discoverie ... under M. Frobisher', London: Henry Bynnyman, 1578. British Library G.6527.

 

The first is a map included in the description of Martin Frobisher’s voyage to the Arctic, published in 1578  to generate publicity in further journeys there to mine sparkly but worthless iron pyrite brought back from Canada (used to make roads around Dartford). If the world map is anything to be believed, Frobisher really was a dunce for missing the vast, gaping wide passage to the Indies. Exaggerated on the map, it was intended to give the impression to would-be backers that the next mission could not possibly fail!

Robert Thorne, Orbis Universalis Descriptio [London : T. Dawson for T. Woodcocke, 1582]. British Library C.24.b.35

Another map, produced in 1527 but published later in 1576, shows a completely different Arctic. There is no passage to the Indies, just the impenetrable bulk of North America. No way through there, then. How can two contemporary maps be so different? Because maps lie, and lie for a reason. Robert Thorne’s map was produced for the Muscovy Company, who wanted to direct resources and impetus to the Indies in the opposite direction, via a Northeast Passage over modern-day Russia.

The path to map perfection is strewn with false capes, dead ends, and more than a few icebergs.

Lines in the Ice: seeking the Northwest Passage , a free exhibition at the British Library, opens tomorrow (Friday). Hat and scarf recommended. 

Online participation in the Maps Tag-a-thon, launched 31 October with an event here at the Library, is open!  We invite remote enthusiasts to get involved in the tagging so that maps can be identified and then georeferenced so as to offer full geo-functionality (public domain!). The aim to is to find every map from amongst the million images.

  

Nearly 33% of the books have been reviewed, with over 6,000 maps found, since Friday - that's only five days! If you can join us in this amazing effort, have a look at the instructions on Wikimedia Commons.

A report on the event will come soon, but I wanted to flag up this opportunity. Thanks to all the help from the British Library Digital Research Team, OpenStreetMap and Wikimedia Commons!

As a new giant oil field is discovered in the North Sea we are reminded of the controversial and complex 20th century issue of underwater oilfields. Smeared across modern history, the discovery and exploitation of oil accounts for many of the momentous actions of the past century. Oil in the Caribbean, the North Sea, and the Arctic, continue to dominate international politics.  

It was only in the 20th century that the technology existed to locate and extract oil from under the sea(and the ability use it in prodigious quantities). But even prior to comprehending that logistical nightmare sits the tricky and subjective issue of establishing 'ownership' of the sea - demarcating sovereign rights. How exactly does one draw a line on water? Where should the line be and upon what basis? What happens when the water takes the form of land, as with the frozen Arctic Ocean? 

This Norwegian map, included in the new British Library publication 'A History of the 20th century in 100 maps', shows the pattern of oil exploitation under the North Sea in 1975. The grid represents the licence areas for prospecting for oil, the colourful Tetris-like blocks those areas at that time being exploited. The UK coast is in yellow to the lower left, whilst Norway occupies the upper right. 

Oil and gas were discovered under the sea in the 1950s, and the 1964 the Continental Shelf Act carved up the North Sea amongst its coastal nations. The issue of where to divide the sea between Britain and Norway became particularly controversial. The boundary was equidistant, drawn according to lines of latitude and longitude. You can make it out out by the difference in size of the licence area boxes (the British ones, to the left of it,  are smaller, evidence of Britian's wish to squeeze every last drop from the licensees). Using the earth's parallels and meridians is one way to draw a line. The border between Canada and the United States, or between North and South Korea, are similar such land borders. Another way is to use the physical geography of the earth, such as the Pyrenees which form a natural border between France and Spain.

The same can be true of features on the sea bed, and in the 1970s in Britain, suffering from the  Middle East oil embargo, with economic malaise and high unemployment, it was argued as such. There is a deep blue area on the map which curved around Norway on the map, signifying deeper water. It was argued by some that this 'Norwegian Trench' limited Norway's continental shelf to the area within that trench. However, Norway's eventual area of the North Sea got was far greater, encompassing the giant Esofisk oil field which is visible at the lower centre of the map. So desperate had Britain been to realise the benefits of the North Sea oil revenue that it ceded more to Norway just to avoid protracted negotiations. It was called by critics 'the most generous present in English history'. 

Our forthcoming exhibition Lines in the Ice: Seeking the Northwest Passage (opening on 14 November) will showcase the same controversial issue in the oil-rich Arctic Ocean.

The same two demarcating principles have been employed by states with Arctic coasts. On the one hand, the principle of 'Sector Theory' projects northward the eastern and western limits of a state until they meet at the North Pole. That state claims more-or-less the sector contained therein. This has traditionally been seen as the basis for Canada's claim (though Canada has never formally stated it). On the other hand, physical geography, the geology of the sea bed, and natural features such as the Lomonosov Ridge, have been more recently presented as a natural demarcation of Russia's continental shelf, an extension of its sovereign territory underwater.

Canada, Department of the Interior, 'Map of the Northwest Territories', Ottawa, 1926. British Library Maps 70420.(36.).

Borders and boundaries can be based on all sorts of things. The interesting things about these underwater claims are their use of science to support them, and the use of maps to affirm them. There remain, however, many other layers, boundaries and borders of varying visibility, and each of them may be used to argue some claim, however spurious, even those derived from the old-fashioned 'invasion' method. The very absence of borders of Inuit lands does not void their claim to their land and frozen sea. The lack of an Scottish-English border in the North Sea oil map (indeed, Scotland is not even named) has been a continuingly divisive issue within Britain (the Queen's turning on of the first pipeline to Aberdeen in 1976 was Scottish police's biggest operation).

Amidst all of this, what about those states with no coastline bordering an oil rich ocean? They might very well feel left out, and feel justified in drawing up yet another map with another set of lines and boundaries which supports their claim. One may ask on what possible basis such a claim could ever be founded. When the prize is oil, the argument has clearly always been worth having.

Lines in the Ice: Seeking the Northwest Passage opens on 14 November

A history of the 20th century in 100 maps is published by the British Library

The winners of this year's Off the Map competition, in collaboration with Gamecity and Crytek, will be announced tomorrow evening at an award ceremony in Nottingham, and we're all rather excited about it.

As you'll recall, this year's competition has a special Gothic theme to coincide with our major exhibition Terror and Wonder: the Gothic Imagination. Accordingly, we supplied three suitable sites for the competitors to chose to recreate in video-game form, and furnished them with British Library collection items to do it with. Our shortlist of three finalist teams have each produced unique versions of one of the chosen sites. Here are their video flythroughs.

Team Shady Agents from from the University of South Wales produced this game based on  Edgar Allen Poe's novella 'Masque of the Red Death'.

  

Team Nix, also from University of South Wales, produced a videogame based around the author William Beckford's gothic house Fonthill Abbey

  

And Team Flying Buttress of de Montfort University created this version of Dracula's Whitby

  

Which one is your favourite? We will discover the winners tomorrow