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There’s an unintentional “tea theme” to this issue’s diary. So very British—as is apologizing for it.
When I told people I was going on an expedition to discover Sir Richard Burton’s tomb, they looked a bit puzzled. After all, he was one of Hollywood’s greats—but wasn’t visiting his grave a bit excessive? “Not that Richard Burton,” I patiently explained. The man I was in search of was the eccentric Victorian anthropologist, explorer and, some might argue, pornographer, “Ruffian Dick,” the unexpurgated translator of The Arabian Nights, The Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Garden. The first non-Muslim to make the Hajj journey to Mecca spoke 29 languages and once announced to a priest, “Sir, I’m proud to say I have committed every sin in the Decalogue.” This last was a problem, since his wife Isabel was a fiercely religious Roman Catholic who got a doctor to apply electrodes to the dying Burton to keep him alive long enough to convert him.
RICHARD BURTON’S TOMB
61 North Worple Way, Mortlake
After Burton’s demise, Isabel furiously bowdlerized all the rude bits she could find from as many of his translations of ancient texts as she still held. The revised version of The Perfumed Garden and his steamy-to-say-the-least private diaries she burned entirely. But she couldn’t quite break his connections with the Middle East. She built him a giant stone monument in a quiet London cemetery—in the shape of a Bedouin tent.
The grave is extraordinary, a gothic fantasy Mary Shelley herself would be proud to lie inside—and possibly the oddest tomb I have ever seen. It’s incongruous enough from the front, surrounded by crosses and angels and sitting by an ancient wall, the local cats sunning themselves by its sealed door. But what’s even crazier is round the back.
A small iron ladder leads to a dusty glass window in the roof, where the viewer can peer down upon the ornately decorated coffins of Burton and his wife, slowly disappearing under mouldering peelings from the trompe l’oeil painted ceiling above. Around the caskets, camel bells and Moroccan lanterns jostle with framed paintings of Christ and decaying flowers. A tiny altar remains, still adorned with little bottles and trinkets from when Isabel took afternoon tea with and held séances for her dead husband. It is an incredible piece of Secret London—but one to visit in bright sunshine.
A nice cup of tea and a sit-down is the traditional English answer to everything remotely shocking, and, as luck would have it, my sister was just about to visit for tea anyway. She is allergic to practically everything—gluten, dairy, meat, you name it—but Brown’s Hotel is one of the best places I know in London for catering to special dietary requirements. Their formal tea is one of my favorites too, being discreet and cozy, with its wood-paneled rooms and no-nonsense armchairs, without being overbearing or fussy. The staff members are not the snobs I’ve encountered at other famous establishments. They’re friendly and solicitous, and never forget that for most people, full afternoon tea in a London hotel is a special occasion.
BROWN’S HOTEL
Albemarle St., W1
I mentioned my sister’s allergies when booking (as with all decent afternoon tea stops you have to book ahead), but I was astounded with the results. For my parents and me the usual three-tier plates of dainty sandwiches and exquisite cakes appeared—lovely but not in itself any different from anywhere else. But instead of, perhaps, a side-plate with an extra sandwich and a dry biscuit for my Sis, another three-tier plate arrived, bearing every single item that she could eat. Special sandwiches, little wafers, fruit concoctions, bite-sized chocolate fancies—all sorts.
“Our chef loves a challenge,” said the maitre d’. “He actually enjoys individual guests’ special requirements.” Rather than being a problem, my sister was welcomed. I adore Brown’s.
I also adore The Wallace Collection. Most people scuttling along Oxford Street just don’t know about the sumptuous gem hidden behind it. Hertford House was built in the 18th century because there was good duck shooting to be had for the Duke of Manchester when he came to town, but it became a repository for the family art collection. Over the years they built up an incredible stock of Old Masters, finally bequeathed to the nation in 1897 by Lady Wallace, the last of the line. It was opened to the public in 1900.
THE WALLACE COLLECTION
Manchester Square, W1U
Everything about it is glamorous and sparkling—from the building itself, recently restored with velvet swags, sweeping staircases and gilded cherubs, to the core collection embracing some of the most famous works in the world. The Laughing Cavalier, Madame de Pompadour and The Swing are just a part of the veritable embarrassment of Watteaus, Fragonards, Rubens and Bouchers the collection holds. Oh—and it has one of the best tea rooms around Oxford Street, in the recently glass-roofed courtyard at the back, complete with parlor palms and wicker furniture. Not that I’m always thinking of my stomach, of course, but some of those Oxford Street watering holes are awful.
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COURTESY OF THE WALLACE COLLECTION
Back in the Square Mile, I spent a happy lunch hour listening to one of the free Gresham College Lectures. Sir Thomas Gresham, a man of learning and former Lord Mayor of London, established the tradition of free public lectures for all in 1597, on land provided by the City of London. Elizabeth I gave it her royal approval, and the series has just celebrated its 400th anniversary, though it is now held at Barnard’s Inn on High Holborn. It’s a solemn honor to be named one of the Gresham Professors, and big-hitters from all the major universities and the wider academic world speak on subjects from science to culture, politics to economics, geometry to astronomy, to all comers, for nothing. No booking is required unless it’s one of their extra-special talks by someone very famous —although even the big events are still free of charge. My particular lecture was by Professor Davitt Moroney, the Indiana Jones of music history, who has just rediscovered a lost Renaissance masterpiece. Afterward, I was so impressed I gushed my thanks to the poor man like a lovestruck teenager. It was not a pretty sight. But there was tea….
GRESHAM COLLEGE LECTURES
Barnard’s Inn, Holburn
I leave you with the happy news that walking through Greenwich today, I noticed that Cutty Sark, the world’s last remaining tea clipper, is back on restoration track. Giant cranes were lifting her from her fire-singed berth, ready to resume her beautification process. There should be a fine view of the works this summer when a giant observation wheel sits in the grounds of the Old Royal Naval College for three months so visitors can enjoy stunning views of the Thames downstream of The London Eye.
CUTTY SARK
Greenwich Pier, Greenwich
I’ll report on that next time, plus a taste of Bohemian Soho, a visit to a Victorian operating theater—and a little passageway to rival Diagon Alley….
THIS MONTH’S CONTACTS:
SIR RICHARD BURTON’S TOMB — St. Mary Magdalen’s RC Church, 61 North Worple Way, Mortlake, London SW14 8PR Nearest BR Station — Mortlake, then a short walk.
BROWN’S HOTELE — Albermarle St, W14. www.brownshotel.com
THE WALLACE COLLECTION — Manchester Square, London W1U 3BN. www.wallacecollection.org
GRESHAM COLLEGE LECTURES — Barnard’s Inn, Holborn. www.gresham.ac.uk
THE CUTTY SARK — www.cuttysark.org.uk
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