Flowers, alleys and Turner

Following our historical trip to Dubris, sorry, Dover, we spent our final full day in London exploring the heaving, bustling cosmopolis of the old city.

A friend of our host told us that the most scenic way to reach Brick Lane, where we planned to fossick among the stalls, was via the Columbia flower market. Which sounded perfect, though he did tell is to listen out for the Cockney accents for some extra local colour. As it turned out, we needn’t have listened out for the accents, as from the moment we started down Columbia lane we were engulfed in the sights, smells and above all sounds of the market. Stall owners were calling out to each other over the crowds in exactly the sort of Cockney accents that the streets are full of in Dickensian dramas. Under that was the chatter of locals and tourists, admiring the overflowing buckets and trays of flowers of all kinds, the rattle of bicycles and tooting of cars on the next street.
We briefly escaped the commotion in a little cafe behind the stalls, enjoying pies (actual pies!) and the relative peace of the room, before returning to the world outside.
Though there were many beautiful bouquets, it didn’t seem like a good idea to get flowers the day before an International flight, so we continued along the canals to Brick Lane.

Columbia Flower market

Columbia Flower market

Brick Lane seems from the end that we started on to be a series of jumble sale stalls, with collections of old books and shoes that anyone could dig out of their spare rooms. As we went on though, we saw the little specialty shops, boutique second hand stores and underground markets. They were the sorts of places where you could buy expensive candles and designer jewelry, vintage fur coats, bomber jackets and a green velvet cloak. Record stores, selling actual records, were doing a booming trade and mostly young people were striding around in groups, retro sunglasses on against the sun shining down the lane. Passing a placard with a mention of Jack the Ripper, and walls covered in the most artistic of graffiti, we found the food vans and regretting having already eaten.

Food stalls on Bricklane

Food stalls on Bricklane

After some difficulties in Whitechapel Station (it would be that one), we made our way to the centre of town and the National Gallery. We had only a limited amount of time to spend, so tried to find the eras we were most interested in. Very soon we had found the collection of Van Gogh paintings, including the famous sunflowers and nearby a huge painting from Monet. It was part of a series, but even alone was mesmerising. Pulling myself away I continued my search for a particular painting and soon found it, smaller than I’d thought. I don’t know what it is about The Fighting Temeraire, but something pulls me back to it over and over.
What’s it like seeing your favourite painting in person? Satisfying and a tiny bit disappointing, for the wait to be over.

By Turner

By Turner

There were other Turner paintings as well, which were also entrancing in their own way, not to mention an astounding horse from Constable and endless halls full of art.
Running out of time, we then had to leave, though by the time we got outside the sun had disappeared behind the clouds.

The National Gallery

The National Gallery

Now what was it we were in such a rush about? Well, when one is in London, one must go to the West End, don’t you know?

The show that we’d bought last minute tickets for was a production partly created by a fellow from our own home town, Tim Minchin. It was also based on a book that I had loved as a little girl. It was of course Matilda.
Due to having last minute tickets, we ended up right at the back, though we still had a great view of the stage and the audience. I was a little bit unsure of how it would go for my partner, as he’s well known to be averse to musicals, but we were both pleasantly surprised and in his own words, he got quite into it.

View from the back

View from the back

It was a show that was full of wonderful songs, sadness, great performances, spiritedness and a message to take away. It often seems that everything these days has some sort of moral, repeated in children’s theatre and movies so that even the least in touch can’t avoid it. The message this time, however, was not quite so Disneyfied. In short, sometimes life is terrible, but putting on a brave face isn’t good enough. If you just grin and bear it, to quote Minchin, you might as well be saying you think that it’s alright. If you want change you have to do it yourself. And friendship and intelligence are powerful. How’s that for inspiring the young?

Matilda!

Matilda!

We left the show, at least in my case, a tiny bit damp around the eyes, buoyed up by the music, songs and fantasy of theatre. Thus lightened, we decided to explore the city at night, taking in Waterstones (biggest bookstore in Europe, seriously, it was massive. And yes, of course I bought a book), Buckingham Palace (less impressive than I’d imagined), the WWII Bomber Memorial (very Greek), dinner at an Indian restaurant (we were in London after all) and finally the couple of drinks (mulled wine with rum!) at a cozy pub. After which we grabbed a ride on a double decker, seated right up the front on the top, for a final tour of the streets of London.

Piccadilly Circus

Piccadilly Circus

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2015: Travels and moving forward

So 2015 is now in the past, and while like any year it creeps along at walking pace while living it, looking back it seems now to have been very full and sometimes reaching a sprint. It has been a year of travelling (7 different countries!), big steps forward (my own business) and important decisions.

It started, as all years do in Sweden, with fireworks and then a trip to Stockholm. Later in the month I met my mum in Copenhagen and traveled around with her, as we showed each other our lives in the North, both past and present.

As the darkness and cold continued to set in, there was a trip to sunny Malaga, a brief inoculation against the winter that has also left me in love with Spain.
Time passed, fear came to my home town, and then Easter and the turning of the seasons. I continued to work, relief teaching at schools and gathering private students, learning as I went. That fear seemed to grow throughout the year, rising from under the surface and at least right now it doesn’t look as though it’s going to recede any time soon.

More trips around the Nordic regions followed, including a cruise across the Baltic and a short stay in Aarhus, Denmark. Summer arrived, and with the holidays I left a beloved school, experienced my second Midsummer picnic and attempted indoor gardening. Other hobbies included joining a flamenco choir, trying to make it to a language café in between teaching and tasting the brews made by my partner.

As summer passed we flew to Malta, experiencing long sunny days, chaos, sea and incredible history. Back at home work continued to increase, with more and more private students and work through a consultancy. I found less time for writing and reflection, and for the first time since I started this blog, the gaps between posts became 2 weeks or more rather than 1. As my focus shifted, I set about making the most of the change, and formally set up my business, including a website and a business plan.

With the end of the year almost upon us, we visited London, a place I’ve long considered as a home that I’d not yet got around to visiting. It met, surpassed and left my expectations far behind, giving me yet another place that lurks invitingly in the back of my mind whenever I’m feeling restless.

Finally we returned to Australia for family, christmas and a holiday of sorts. It was intense, as any trip home to family, friends and real life is bound to be. As well as the various pressures and commitments, the days of the festive season were for the most part relaxing and enjoyable, filled with food and love. I also got a bit of a tan, though you wouldn’t think so if you asked the repairman who came to fix our dryer. I’m fairly sure I let him down a bit.

Then the year came full circle, with fireworks in the cold, cheering and friends, and a return to the long, dark wait until Spring. 2016 is still new and fresh and full of potential, and no amount of guesswork can tell what might happen. A few things are certain, and will be shared in their time, but mostly the year is unwritten, and we shall we what we shall see.

A ‘tower’, an abbey and charming eccentricity

London, the third:

As we climbed up the stairs at the Tower Bridge station, we were ambushed by history older than we’d expected. Looming over us was a wall, 5 metres tall and a metre thick, built and rebuilt over the years, starting in the 200s BCE. The wall once encircled what was then the Roman town of Londinium, and while only fragments of it remain, you can trace is through the names of streets, from Aldgate, Ludgate and the obvious London Wall.

An emperor, cranes and a really old wall

An emperor, cranes and a really old wall

In the shadow of the wall was a statue of Trajan, looking imperious, as well as a flock of tourists peering around through their cameras, looking less imperious. As the wall quickly came to an end, we followed the path it would have taken to a slightly more recent site, one which I’m sure you would have heard about, if not seen in an historical drama of some sort.

The Tower of London

The Tower of London

The Tower of London is not, as the name suggests, a tower. It’s a fortress, admittedly made up of a number of towers, surrounded by a high stone wall and a moat. And tourists. We decided not to go on a tour, but instead walked around it, admiring the ancient stones, the width of the Traitor’s Gate (I guess there must have been many of them) and the combination of brutal harshness and glimpses of royalty.

Tower Bridge

Tower Bridge

From the Tower we crossed Tower Bridge, which was very impressive in person, and definitely contributed to the feeling that I was in London, the London of the stories and postcards. In a good way. Walking along the embankment, we passed a replica of the Golden Hinde (Sir Francis Drake’s ship), the Globe Theatre (a replica of the theatre built for Shakespeare’s plays) and innumerable people out on their lunch break from the skyscrapers lining the Thames.

Globe Theatre

Globe Theatre

Then I headed off to look at the graves of famous dead people. They were all housed in a very fancy building in a prime position by the river, namely Westminster Abbey. I won’t tell you how much the entry ticket was, for fear of frightening you, but after carefully skirting the graves of Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton, William Wilberforce, William Pitt the Younger, Winston Churchill, Oliver Cromwell (briefly) and the Unknown Soldier I was able to come to terms with it. Other notables included Chaucer and memorials to Austen and pretty much any other author or poet you can think of. Plus most of the kings and queens of England since Edward to Confessor, which is a lot of royalty in one spot. Most impressive was the old and indeed long casket of Edward Longshanks and the elaborate memorials to Queens Mary and Elizabeth Tudor. After death they have been placed together, Elizabeth just above her half-sister, a setup that makes me wonder how they would have felt about it.

Westminster Abbey

Westminster Abbey

It is a very beautiful building, and chock full of history, from the paving stone graves to the ceiling of the Lady Chapel and it incidentally fulfilled one of my life ambitions to have Jeremy Irons narrate my life, if only for an hour. It did also, despite being so tied in with Royalty and Religion, have a remarkably secular feeling, which I guess is the anglicanism as opposed to the somewhat shouty catholicism of Italy and Spain.

The final historical trek of the day was to a museum that had been highly recommended by friends, and as a plus was free. It was located down a side street opposite a park, ad looked from the outside very much the Victorian town house that it was. Once inside, I felt as though I’d fallen back in time, and would accidentally interrupt the gentleman of the house or a maid down a dark corridor. The gentleman in question would have been Sir John Soannes, who I’m guessing must have been something of an eccentric, as his house is packed full of antiques, paintings, models and the paraphernalia usually seen in obscure museum collections. Plus the sarcophagus of Seti I.
In order to keep the mood authentic, there is no unnatural light, so as darkness began to fall outside it became more difficult to make out statues in corners or the detail on carvings. Sadly like Westminster Abbey photography was not allowed, so I can only rely on my memory to describe the narrow corridors, woodpanelled and painting lined rooms and lived-in feeling which made me feel as though I was an intruder in someone’s house. Though it would have been someone who would have happily interrupted my musings with a long story about how he came across a relic, and would probably have told me not to walk with such a twisted, elbows in way for fear I’d knock something over, but rather relax and enjoy the atmosphere.
Instead of Soanne himself, there were a bevy of volunteers perched in alcoves or wandering about, ready to spill facts and info at anyone with an ounce of curiosity. This happened to me, and I spent a very interesting 10 minutes hearing how the sarcophagus was lowered into the room via a specially made hole in the roof and that most of the statues and models were in fact plaster, which made me feel a bit less worried about my elbows.
As I write this I realise that I could easily spend an entire blog post just talking about the house and its wonders. Maybe someday I’ll return to the house and the blog and try that, but suffice it to say that it is well worth a visit, and if you need another fact to sum up its endearing eccentricity, picture large dried thistles on every seat. To stop people sitting on the old furniture, obviously.

And what could possibly follow from a visit to the house of a very English eccentric? As you no doubt guessed, it was a poke around at Kings Cross St Pancras station. Yes, I did go to the actual Platform 9 and took a photo, and then found a huge queue leading to an owl-encumbered trolley wedged into a wall on the main concourse. At the end of the line two people with a camera and a lot of enthusiasm were setting up photos for the fans who eagerly leaped about with wands on command, sometimes while one of the staff sang the theme song at high volume. I didn’t stop for a photo opportunity, but I did check out the store which was packed with enough fans and merchandise to make Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes look like the Tasmanian international airport*.

Platform 9

Platform 9


'Platform 9'

‘Platform 9’

We followed up this busy, history filled and walking heavy day with a trip to a local Hackney micro-brewery, marveling between us at the richness of sights, stories, culture and life in London. I mean, where else can you go where you can be narrated by Jeremy Irons?

*At least as it was 13 years ago, before anything as exciting as another shop to compete with its existing single cafe and a non-corrugated iron roof. I love you Tasmania, really.

Streets and stones of London

Though my previous post may have lead you to believe otherwise, there is more to London than just staring at fascinating and ancient artifacts from around the world.
Before I get into that and continue our adventure from the portico of the British Museum, I have a joke relating to an item at the museum to share with you, dear reader.
Me: Knock knock?
You: Who’s there?
Me: Sutton.
You: Sutton who?
And then we laugh. I came up with that joke all by myself, though I have to say that the first listener didn’t give me quite the response I was after. Some people just have no taste.

Anyway, having left the museum (and material for other hilarious jokes) behind, we continued down to the main street, further into London. As we went I noticed plaques on the walls of the very typical townhouse frontages, one of which stood out especially. It was dedicated to Dame Millicent Fawcett, who as I’m sure you know, was President of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies (NUWSS) and played an important role in the campaign for women’s votes. History really is everywhere.

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Dame Millicent Fawcett lived here

We walked for a while, taking in the bustle of tourists and locals, the black cabs and double-decker red buses and ye olde style pubs. Soon we found ourselves in Leicester Square, which seemed to to be heart of the West End. Wherever we turned, huge posters for shows loomed above us, some familiar and some new. We headed to one of the last minute booking stands, and after some discussion, booked tickets to a certain musical for the second last day of our stay. There will be more on that in a later post, and yes, it was fantastic and not revolting at all.

It seemed now that we were starting to slip into the more well known parts of London, the streets and squares featured on endless tv shows and movies. One of the most recognisable squares also waited just ahead of us as we went down towards to river from Leicester Square. All of a sudden, a huge column topped by an old fashioned looking gentleman came into view, and beneath him was spread a place that I have seen so many times that I felt a sense of deja vu. It was also bigger in person, the fountains on either side more like elaborate paddling pools and the lions under Nelson’s Column many times larger than life. At the time it was too dark to properly make out the statues on plinths around the square, but something that was well lit up was the National Gallery, sitting becolumned and huge behind the square. It was closing as we arrived, so we put that off until another day.

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National Gallery at night

In addition to the tourists and locals hanging about and climbing the lion statues, there was a collection of flowers, candles and waterlogged posters huddled next to one of the fountains. The words ‘Je suis Paris’, #endhate and the tricolour in various forms were almost lost in the darkness, lit up by the light of the fountain and the flash of cameras. And if you’re wondering, no we didn’t notice a huge amount of security, no more than the serious clusters of bobbies that I imagine would usually stroll around busy areas.

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Je Suis Paris

From the square, as we turned our backs on the National Gallery, a familiar clock face appeared in the distance. Not having any other plans, we headed towards it, dodging crowds, crossing busy streets and passing endless pubs and theatres. The Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben were all as impressive as I’d thought they would be, lit up and seeming to have just jumped out of a guidebook.

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There was also one final sight that I wanted to take in, one that isn’t on the front pages of the guidebooks. The Stone of London. I’d heard about it in the novel Kraken, by China Mieville, and then found references to it in guides to obscure sights of London.
It’s origins are mysterious, from a Roman mile stone, the foundation of a bath house to the remnants of a medieval wall, and has been mentioned in travel guides from the middle ages to the 18th century. In the 14th century the leader of a rebellion against the king swore an oath on the stone before going to war (he failed, though it probably wasn’t the stone’s fault), and it was commonly believed to be the heart of London. If it was moved, so it was said, the city of London would fall.

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The Stone of London

It’s now located behind a grating in the wall of a convenience store, with only a small plaque and the neighbouring London Stone pub giving away its location. Maybe in another 2000 years it’ll still be there, slightly more reduced and unimportant looking, dragging myths with it into the future.

After all this adventure our feet were starting to hurt and our stomachs were rumbling, so we sought out dinner and drinks and then went home. By the time we made it back, sleepy and tipsy, the name of the train line that we had to catch was completely hilarious. It kept us going at least halfway home.

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A tube line

There’s no place like…

It’s a strange contradiction, that one of the cities whose landmarks and streets I have known as well as my home city hasn’t been on the top of my list of places to visit. Rome, France, Spain, Japan, New Zealand, Istanbul, Malta – they’ve all been ticked off, but somehow that one city lurking in the background, all foggy streets, lamplight, theatre and history, just sat there quietly, waiting, as overlooked as the back of my hand.

Last week I finally made it there, and I should warn you that I have collected enough memories, history, stories and material for at least three posts. Until the next time we visit.

So without gilding the lilly, while I may have the body of a woman I have the heart of a man, so we will keep calm and carry on, the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable, and despite my love of the sound of deadlines as they whoosh past we shall get on with it (‘Yes, get on with it!’).

In case my heavy hints didn’t help, the place that we went, finally, was London. Now that you’ve reached this point, go back to the title and complete the line preferably in a gravelly Johnny Depp voice. It will set the mood. (Obviously I don’t endorse this view of London. It was much less foggy for a start.)

My first impression, as we stepped off the train at Liverpool Street Station, wasn’t darkness, creeping fog and dirt, but the pride and elegance of the Industrial era towering over a living city. Having been recently renovated, the iron columns of the old station loomed above us, topped with delicate lattice work buttresses and supported by painted palm bases. Far above was a semi-transparent ceiling that let in enough light to give the building a glow but not enough to see the clouded sky. It was a good first impression.
From there we made the most important purchase of our trip; oyster cards. I cannot overstate how useful these are, to be able to unthinkingly breeze through the gates of the tube or onto buses with a little, satisfying blip. The second most important thing we collected was a map of the underground. These were both worth their weight in gold.

Oyster and map

Oyster and map

So it was a simple thing to make our way to the airbnb accommodation, settle in and make a plan for the evening. My partner had, predictably, looked up the location before and sussed out the local pubs and breweries, of which there were many, so it was to one of these that we headed for our first night.

The pub was loud, warm and bracingly welcoming. However, within 5 minutes of stepping inside we had committed our first cultural faux pas. To us, a space at a table with empty and half-full glasses means that someone has left without finishing their drinks. But au contraire! Here it meant that the drinkers in question were outside smoking, and had left the half-full glass as a sign that they’d be back. Muttering apologies we escaped and found a new spot, where we excitedly ordered our first sausage roll in years and I enjoyed a very hot, very clovey mulled cider.
‘To London!’ we cheered, clinking our glasses together and settling into the beaten up old couch.

So, knowing me, as many of you readers do, what would you lay your money down as the first place we’d visit in London? If you guessed the National Gallery then no, but you’re close. If you guessed the recently opened Jack the Ripper museum, then frankly I don’t think you know me as much as you think.
If you guessed the British Museum, then well done! You win the prize of my esteem and a detailed description of my visit the next time we meet. Be prepared for enthusiasm and jazz-hands.

British Museum

British Museum

There is a piece of stone that I have wanted to see for most of my life, at least since I was 8 or 9. I’ve seen a copy and left a flower on the grave of one of the men who worked with it, in Paris. It is one of the most important artifacts in the world, and enabled us to open up a part of human history that had been partly hidden behind mysterious symbols for a very long time. It was, of course, the Rosetta Stone. I am, however, a person who enjoys drawing out the anticipation, so it was to the right, and the Assyrian gallery that we headed for first.

There we found the reconstruction of a massive door, cuneiform rolls and semi-human statues staring down at us. The most interesting for me were the panels from the palace of Ashurbanipal II in Nimrud. They showed hunting, war and the gods, typical stuff, but something about the finely detailed curls in the beards, the lone, perhaps baffled fish in the river crossing scene and the delicate beauty of the gazelle being offered up to the king charmed me. We spent a while there, staring and absorbing, before we slipped into the Egyptian gallery.

River crossing from Nimrud

River crossing from Nimrud

It didn’t take long to spot the Rosetta stone, mostly surrounded by school kids and tourists and looking exactly as I’d imagined. It was a very special moment and the culmination in a way of a lifetime of immersing myself in history.

Rosetta Stone, at last

Rosetta Stone, at last

Also in the Egyptian gallery were reliefs, sarcophagi and monumental heads of Amenhotep III and Ramses II. The latter especially looked serene, sure perhaps that thousands of years later he would not be forgotten or left buried in the desert.

A serene Pharaoh

A serene Pharaoh

The next part of the museum we ventured into focused on Greece, and it was here that my partner found himself unexpectedly entranced. He’s recently completed a ceramics course, bringing home a selection of lovely bowls and plates, so the displays of ancient plates, amphorae, vases and jugs entirely grabbed his attention. And they were stunning. Almost all where in the black on red style, showing gods and heroes parading about, or mortals indulging in an amphorae or two of wine. The quality of the work was stunning though, often discreetly signed by the painter and the potter, and found in places as far afield as Campania in Italy and in Egypt. It reminded me of the fineness of Georg Jensen ewers, or other designer home wares that you’d be more likely to display on a shelf than actually use.
Further on there were Corinthian helmets, one with a dent, Sassanid swords and statuary, but for me it was all a build up to the main event.

Athenian pottery

Athenian pottery

I have been debating with myself as to whether to get into the politics surrounding the artifacts I’m about to describe. Though it’s important, for now I’m going to describe the moment so you can see what I saw, and someday I’ll get into the issue, perhaps when I’ve seen the original home of the artifacts.
When I first heard of the Parthenon Marbles, or the Elgin Marbles as I first heard them referred to, I for some reason imagined then literally as big, white marbles. As in the round ones that kids used to play with, but white and smooth and a metres tall. I am, I fear, sometimes too literal.

What they actually are, of course, are the friezes and statues that once adorned the Parthenon in Athens, carved of fine marble and showing at once the incredible artistic outpourings of the time and how difficult it can be to correctly interpret the people of the past. Most of the works show a cavalcade of riders filling up panel after panel with movement and life, the muscles and tendons on the horses and men seeming to thrum with energy even without the paint and decoration that would once have covered them.

Living marble

Living marble

A parade was also taking place, with men and women tugging along heifers, sometimes against their will and carrying mysterious instruments for purposes that we don’t know.
At the end of each room where large but fragmentary statues that once sat on the triangular ends of the temple. Neptune, and perhaps Aphrodite and Demeter lounge and sit around, headless and armless, the folds of their clothes caught in sudden movement. The heads of horses also perch on display, nostrils wide and eyes fierce, though their bodies are long gone.

Parthenon sculptures

Parthenon sculptures

Finally there were the ‘Metopes’, panels showing a battle between centaurs and Lapiths. Again and again a man and centaur were shown locked in battle, always at a critical moment. It felt as though in the moment of sculpting the fight could go either way, the stone clutched in one hand could fly into the enemy’s face or a spear could be turned aside. In addition to the fine artistry, they seemed to live and tell a story, if we can only work out the message.

An endless battle

An endless battle

Having left the world of classical Greece, we found ourselves sharing space with fragments from the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. If you’ve ever wondered where the word mausoleum comes from, look no further. In the 300d BCE a woman called Artemisia commissioned a massive tomb for her husband Mausolus and herself, which became one of the wonders of the ancient world. Though they were part of the Persian empire she employed Greek architects to design it, and the fragments that are left show a mix of both influences. Two massive statues remain, possibly of Mausolus and his sister-wife Artemisia, but the most amazing piece in my opinion was the head, shoulders and part of the legs of a horse that once stood with three others in a chariot on the roof. It was simply huge, towering over me as it once did over the city.

A colossal horse

A colossal horse

Then there was the Celtic room which turned into the Romano-British and then Viking gallery. It included incredible dishes and cups from the Mildenhall find, a delicately made chest chain probably worn only once by a very young Romano-British bride on her wedding and a seemingly unimportant letter from the Roman period.

A silver dish from the Mildenhall find

A silver dish from the Mildenhall find

It was from 100CE Vindolanda on the then border of the empire, and addressed to a woman named Sulpicia Lepidina. It was a birthday party invitation, written mostly by a scribe but in the bottom corner it had been signed by the sender, Claudia Severa,

I shall expect you, sister. Farewell, sister, my dearest soul, as I hope to prosper, and hail.

This letter is thought to be the earliest known writing in Latin by a woman, and I adore how innocuous it is. And at the same time showing the love and life of real people, and everyday life. I hope Sulpicia made it to Claudia’s birthday.

Claudia Severa to her Lepidina greetings

Claudia Severa to her Lepidina greetings

At the end of the long room were the treasures from the Sutton Hoo burial. I’ve known about these for a long time, but somehow the fact that they were in the British Museum had slipped my mind until I read up about the Museum prior to visiting. Knowing that I was eager to see the treasure, in particular the helmet, my partner told me to close my eyes and turned me around to see it when he spotted it before me. I saw first the reconstruction, a beautifully made helmet of silver, inlaid with precious stones and decorated with symbols from the Roman, Celtic and Viking worlds. To the side was the original, much reduced, but with the decorations still visible.

Sutton Hoo reconstruction

Sutton Hoo reconstruction


Sutton Hoo original

Sutton Hoo original

Even though no one knows for sure who the man buried with the helmet was, he was lucky to have incredible craftsmen available to provide treasures to take on his final journey. As well as the helmet, was the clasp of a purse, a brooch and buckles, made of gold and gems and of the sort of quality I’d expect on the catalogue of a professional jeweler today. It goes to show that despite the prejudice about those who went before us being somehow less able due to the limitations of technology, they were just as capable of creating beautiful things, simply and confidently.

Purse clasp from Sutton Hoo

Purse clasp from Sutton Hoo

By now we were tiring, and the wonders of the past were starting to blur together a little, so we headed to the exit. On the way out I bought something which I felt symbolised my impressions of London, at least prior to visiting; a compact umbrella decorated with writing from the Rosetta Stone. Armed against the likely rain, we went out and continued our first day in London.