Tensions in the North Sea have dominated recent headlines, with Russian vessels edging into British waters. It’s a sharp reminder that danger can sit far nearer than we choose to imagine. York may feel distant from maritime geopolitics today, but a century and a half ago the city made its own symbolic gesture of vigilance.
In the 1850s, at the request of the City Authorities, two captured naval guns from the Crimean War with Tsarist Russia were presented to York and mounted near the Blue Bridge in St George’s Field. Pointed down the Ouse, the guns offered no real strategic defence, but they performed a theatrical assertion of readiness, an echo of imperial naval confidence in the heart of an inland city. They stood for decades as civic trophies until the Second World War, when they were removed and scrapped during the national drive for metal.
York is filled with physical reminders of conflict. Our very foundations are military: Eboracum, legionary fortress of Rome; medieval walls built and rebuilt for centuries; Clifford’s Tower dominating the skyline; and numerous memorials to citizens and soldiers lost in war. Yet amid these stone and bronze landmarks, far less known – and far less celebrated – are York’s symbols dedicated not to war, but to peace.
These monuments are smaller, quieter and often startlingly vulnerable. They do not dominate the landscape, but ask instead for reflection, compassion and remembrance of our shared humanity. In a city renowned for its Quaker heritage – with its conversations about justice, non-violence and social reform – these peace symbols deserve far greater awareness.
Take Tower Gardens, where a single rose tree was planted in 2012 in memory of the 1190 massacre of York’s Jews. The ‘Souvenir d’Anne Frank’ rose travelled from Japan, having been grafted from a flower sent there by Anne Frank’s father in the 1970s.
From that one rose, others were distributed across Japan as symbols of peace. This living memorial links the city to a global story of resistance to hatred and the hope of reconciliation.
In the Memorial Gardens on Leeman Road is a bed of peace roses. Planted in 1986 as part of the UN’s ‘Year of International Peace’ and an act of civic optimism during the later years of the Cold War – a time when nuclear anxieties were real – they offered a tangible symbol of a more hopeful future.
The roses remain, blooming quietly beside more dominant memorials to twentieth-century conflicts.
Then there are Rowntree Park’s peace doves – perhaps the most delicate of York’s peace symbols, and possibly the most emblematic of their fragility. Installed in 1921 as part of the Rowntree family’s wider commitment to community wellbeing, the dovecote with its white doves formed part of the memorial to Rowntree staff who served in the First World War.
The current flock are descendants of the originals: a rare example of a peace symbol that is literally alive. Their survival, however, has often depended on public campaigns and volunteer care – a reminder of how easily such symbols can fade.
Less well known still is the Norway Maple in St Helen’s Churchyard near St Sampson’s Square. Planted in 1995 to mark the 50th anniversary of the United Nations Association, it was intended as a living celebration of international cooperation. Since then, it has faced repeated threats from redevelopment and simple neglect. Its story mirrors a broader pattern: peace, it seems, is not only harder to achieve, but harder to keep alive in the public realm. Other cities have formal Peace Gardens. Why not York?
What connects all these monuments is their precariousness. None are grand. They do not stand atop mounds or battlements. Instead, they are tucked beside footpaths, planted in borders, or hidden in dovecotes. Their modesty is intentional, but it also leaves them exposed – to indifference, weather, redevelopment, or the quiet erosion of time.
Yet there’s a lesson in this. Peace, when first achieved, can feel monumental, but as the years pass it is often taken for granted. York’s peace symbols are small precisely because peace itself is something to be nurtured. Their fragility reflects our own responsibility to protect it.
At a moment when global tensions feel alarmingly close again, York’s lesser-known peace monuments invite us to consider not only our city’s long military past, but the quieter values that underpin its civic life.
By Duncan Marks
Planning and Heritage Manager at York Civic Trust