Why the Lloyd's of London building deserves its Grade I listing Rogers first tried the inside-out, Meccano look in 1971 at Paris's Pompidou Centre, built with Renzo Piano. At Lloyd's, he zoomed even further into a space-age future. Austere concrete columns happily clash with bright blue window-cleaning cranes and gleaming, stainless steel external staircases. It should have been an unholy mess - built on a higgledy-piggledy medieval footprint, forced by planners to incorporate the classical stone entrance arch from its 1928 predecessor. In fact, the weird combination of old and new - Blade Runner meets the National Trust - works a treat. It deserves its starring role this month, when it hosts English Heritage's celebrations of the centenary of the 1913 Ancient Monuments Consolidation and Amendment Act. This particular piece of legislation might sound dull, but it was a milestone in heritage history. It marked the moment when the government could, for the first time, stop someone knocking down their elegant Jacobean pile or selling an Adam fireplace. We take it for granted, but the British have an exceptional love of great buildings, from Stonehenge to Lloyd's. The 1913 Act was a crucial element in the accumulated network of defences guarding those buildings against bulldozers and developers. A total of 880 historic sites in the country have now been preserved thanks to its powers. Lloyd's is an odd, if worthy, addition to the list. Because what we British really like is old buildings. We've liked them for a long time. In 1832, Goethe, in his play Faust, had his devilish character, Mephistopheles, say: "Are Britons here? They go abroad, feel calls; To trace old battlefields and crumbling walls. This pride endures. Even when we showed our modern face to the world at the Olympics and the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, it was to a backdrop of peerless historic architecture. Beach volleyball at the 18th-century Palladian setting of Horse Guards; the Jubilee concert on stage at Buckingham Palace. Where did our taste for old buildings come from? Partly it's because we're a long-occupied island, one that's easily accessible but hasn't been successfully invaded for nearly a millennium. We can look back down a relatively uninterrupted national timeline. Wartime bombing and modern town planning apart, there are still many fine buildings to look after, untouched by the enemy without or within. Because this island is rich in mineral resources, we developed artistic and engineering skills that led to exceptional buildings and monuments. The national desire to preserve great buildings kicked in during the early 18th century. Sir John Vanbrugh, architect of Blenheim Palace and Castle Howard, was the first Englishman to campaign for the protection of threatened ruins. These days, the conservation of ancient buildings seems utterly logical. But Vanbrugh was considered distinctly odd in 1709 when he tried to save Woodstock Manor, the decaying medieval pile opposite Blenheim. Old buildings, Vanbrugh said, "move more lively and pleasing reflections than history without their aid can do." Clearly his sentiment reflects something deep in the British psyche: we've all caught the preservation bug. Some 1,800 British country houses may have been demolished since 1800 but, still, 50 million people visit at least one stately home every year. In 2011, the National Trust recruited its four millionth member. There are more members of heritage organisations here than in any other country on earth. More recently, a taste for architectural conservatism and revivalism has been entrenched in detailed and strict planning laws. The British fascination with history is unusual, even when it comes to the academic study of the subject. Across the Continent, political science is more popular in schools and universities. In Germany, in around 1900, political science was substituted for history, which was considered an ungainly mixture of anecdotes and pointless articles. In many other countries, history lessons stop after primary school. A related desire to preserve the past was behind the 1913 Act. The legislation was prompted by a threat to medieval Tattershall Castle in Lincolnshire, bought by an American syndicate in 1911. The mantelpieces and fireplaces had already been removed when Lord Curzon, the former Viceroy of India, stepped in. He was able to gazump the Americans, bringing his influence to bear on Customs and Excise officers who managed to confiscate the fixtures and fittings just in time. Two years later, Parliament passed the new Act, leading to the scheduling, supervision and maintenance of monuments and, later, buildings. A group of commissioners formed the Ancient Monuments Board, which was alerted to any imminent damage or destruction of an important site. Crucially, the board could impose a government preservation order, allowing public officials to enter private property, and stop any damage for 18 months. Among the first monuments protected were Lindisfarne Priory, Northumberland, and Yarmouth Castle in the Isle of Wight. Over the next 18 years - until 1931, when the Act was succeeded by the Ancient Monuments Act - some of the great jewels of British architecture came under its control. Thisincluded Eleanor Crossin Geddington, Northants; Rievaulx Abbey, North Yorkshire; Whitby Abbey; and Wayland's Smithy in Oxfordshire. English Heritage was built around the skeleton of these preservation acts. Founded in 1983, it was the successor to the Ministry of Works, itself ultimate successor to the Office of Works, set up in 1378 to look after the monarch's castles and palaces. But these admirable bodies could do nothing without legal power. That's what the hallowed, undervalued 1913 Act brought with it. At last, our spiritual love of old buildings was given some real muscle. A century on, the benefits are there for all to see. How England Made the English by Harry Mount (Viking, £20) is available from Telegraph Books (0844 871 1514) at £18 plus £1.35 p&p.