Here’s what it’s like to live in the Tower of London
Pickle, a Bengal cat, is curled up in one of England’s most prestigious addresses: the Tower of London, officially His Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, a former prison and place of execution. The cat, who often goes missing at night, was recently found in the Martin Tower, where Henry Percy was imprisoned for 17 years for his part in the Gunpowder Plot.
“Fraggle”, as he is affectionately known, is Pickle’s owner. His official title is Yeoman Warder No 412, Paul Langley, but he prefers his nickname. Since 2021, he’s lived at the Tower with his wife, Zena, a social worker, daughter Georgia, 21, a student, and Poppy, Pickle’s playmate, a British blue. Their son Harry, 27, a teacher, lives in the family’s former home in North Yorkshire.
To become a Beefeater you must have at least 22 years of military service. Langley, from South Shields, has this and more — he joined the military aged 15, spending 35 years in the Royal Air Force regiment.
“I was part of the Queen’s Colour Squadron, and we often came to the Tower for ceremonial duties,” he says. In 2021 they moved into their home — a former soldier’s canteen, a two-bedroom cottage with kitchen, open-plan dining room, sitting room, bathroom and hallway in which stands Langley’s ceremonial Beefeater uniform in pride of place on a display mannequin.
On either side and down the length of the outer walls are his colleagues’ quarters — 35 families in total, all going about their daily lives inside the Tower walls. Each of the casemates (living quarters) is distinct, and there is banter regarding which cottage is the most superior.
Around 100 people live in the Tower
VICKI COUCHMAN FOR THE TIMES
One of the things that Langley most loves about the 100-strong residential community is the Yeoman Warder body: “Terry has been here 24 years, Baz arrived just six to eight weeks ago, we’re all ex-military.” That camaraderie is handy when you need your uniform buttons doing up and can pop next door, or the “Story” (the tour script) needs a friendly recital.
“At first it was a bit unusual and, even now, I’m glad the novelty hasn’t worn off. The community here is wonderful.” Langley says there are points of convenience: a designated parking bay outside his house is a plus. Yet with the Tower locked up between midnight and 6am, an early morning flight means you must haul your suitcase by foot to your car parked on the wharf.
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There are frustrations. “Getting wi-fi was a nightmare — they couldn’t get their head around our address.”
Andrew Jackson, the Tower’s governor, with his labrador Rollo, outside their home
VICKI COUCHMAN FOR THE TIMES
Much to the community’s relief, Amazon has found their way to them. But deliveries are a challenge. “Until recently you couldn’t access the casemates via the west gate — drivers had to come into the east gate, often crossing Tower Bridge, which didn’t make it easy,” he says.
With no gardens attached to the Beefeaters’ homes, children play in the lane and garden furniture stands outside many of the front doors. There’s a row of three washing lines welded into the tarmac too — in the summer months, multiple uniforms hang there in full visibility of tourists walking the east and north walls. Just behind that are the coveted garages. Langley is waiting for one.
“There are not enough for houses — it’s time served, and you must move up the waiting list,” he explains.
A stone’s throw from Langley’s house, and forming the hub of the Tower community, is the pub, the Keys. At £3 a pint, it’s potentially London’s cheapest boozer and official guests are entertained here too on any number of open evenings. Langley is the chairman and runs it with his familiar military precision.
Behind the bar is the “snug” — it’s residents only and is hidden from the glare of tourists.
Regimental plaques cover the wall. “May you never die a Yeoman Warder” is the toast given from silver goblets to those who are newly sworn in as Beefeaters, of which there have been fewer than 500.
Inside the Keys pub
VICKI COUCHMAN FOR THE TIMES
“Christmas roast was hosted at the Keys this year. We pulled the tables together and everyone brought a dish, it was great,” Langley says. Getting food in and out of the Tower isn’t always easy, though — if you fancy a takeaway, you’ll have to collect it from the Tower gate.
Andrew Jackson, resident governor of the Tower of London and keeper of the Jewel House, also has a full house. He lives at the old hospital block with his wife, Sara, a teacher, and their 22-year-old triplets — two sons and a daughter. Their home is one half of two Flemish bond brick houses built in 1718 and formerly used as a hospital for the Tower garrison.
It’s a spacious four-bedroom home split over two floors, including two reception rooms on the ground floor opening on to the main concourse — the execution block is nestled to the right and the new armouries and constable tower to the left. Opening the curtains in the morning happens in front of the tourists — three million visitors come each year.
Like Langley, Jackson is ex-military. He spent 33 years in the Royal Yorkshire Regiment as an infantry officer, retiring as a brigadier to join the Tower in 2019.
Langley and his family love the sense of community in the ‘casemates’
VICKI COUCHMAN FOR THE TIMES
Life for the Jackson family has a familiar rhythm and is as normal as anyone else’s, with house guests and daily chores. The grass-covered moat is a convenient spot for taking Rollo, the family labrador, for a walk — he has become part of the history of animals living at the Tower alongside Pickle and Poppy. From the 1200s to 1835, there was a menagerie complete with lions and a polar bear. Foxes also frequent the Tower grounds, often found by the bin stores.
Neither Langley nor Jackson admits to seeing ghosts but both say that their animals often stop in parts of the buildings or refuse to go up flights of stairs.
Aside from the normal daily routines, living in a public place is not lost on the Jackson family. He laughs when he says he hasn’t had a Cherie Blair moment yet — the time in 1997 when she opened the door of 10 Downing Street in her nightie to a sea of paparazzi. “I have opened the back door, though, in my dressing gown.”
The view from Jackson’s house
VICKI COUCHMAN FOR THE TIMES
He does so to the tune of the Peasants’ Revolt, a war cry played on repeat on the exterior wall.
There’s an acknowledgment of privilege among the joviality — not only for living in such a historic building but also around the benefits of living on site. There’s no commute for any of the Tower workers; it’s a great perk, so much so that the Jackson family dispensed with a car three years ago.
As with any unruly tenant, the Licence to Occupy issued by the Historic Royal Palaces, the charity that looks after the Tower, can be revoked where neglect of accommodation or poor behaviour is discovered.
The families do pay rent — it’s not a grace-and-favour benefit. As for security, it doesn’t get much better than being locked up at night — it’s superior to any burglar alarm. And during those hours of quiet when the doors close, the “village” relishes its privacy and takes a breather from living above the shop. The next morning, the hum of the crowds will start up again, the doors to the houses open and duty calls once more.
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