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© GAR POWELL-EVANS
WHEN YOU’RE LOOKING at the genteel palaces and stately sights of London it’s hard to imagine that back in the 17th and 18th centuries the whole city was a hotbed of the sauciest of naughty stuff. Covent Garden was notorious for its high (and low) class brothels, but ordinary folks were only copying their social betters. I couldn’t resist the sound of a new, fascinating, though decidedly adult evening tour around Hampton Court’s state rooms and back stairs promising an evening of “Salacious Gossip.”
There’s something exciting about waiting for locked palace gates to creak open after the public have long gone. The great wooden doors parted to reveal a cobbled courtyard where an outraged “Duchess” in swishing 18th-century silks was overseeing a small champagne reception. We hadn’t taken more than a few dainty sips before she was batting her fan and beckoning us to come closer. The next 90 minutes was a barrage of shocked “on these very stairs,” “they even say that” and “and he wasn’t the only one” delivered at breakneck speed and punctuated by a rapping of the fan and knowing winks. The tales of court smut, readings of letters, worrying props and recitations of poetry from one Earl of Rochester were imparted with the expert delivery of a one-liner comic. I am never going to look at any of the portraits in Hampton Court’s state apartments in the same light again.
AFTER ALL THAT STEAM, a little fresh air was in order and, at last, after many years of promising myself the Chelsea Flower Show, I finally made it this year. It’s best not to think of Chelsea as visiting gardens, more as observing an anthropological experiment. The crowds, the champagne and the hats create an almost frenzied atmosphere of everything hot in the horticultural world. Relaxing it’s not. Invigorating and inspiring it absolutely is. The wall of perfume that assaulted my nostrils as I entered the main pavilion was almost overpowering. It hosts scores of stands with the finest examples of every possible kind of flower, from sweet peas and roses to cacti and my own favorite, auriculas. I enjoyed talking to the owners, especially about how they prepare the plants for this rarefied event—early flowerers kept in refrigeration, late bloomers forced to literal bursting point. Nothing about Chelsea, from the immaculate blossoms to the extraordinary show gardens, is natural, but oh, boy, is it beautiful.
IT’s A SAD FACT that places trading off their reputation as tourist attractions are prone to falling down when it comes to eating. My own home town of Greenwich is one of the worst culprits for promising more than it delivers. To find decent chow, you need to go down the backstreets or seek out a couple of spectacular pubs only the locals know.
One notable exception, however, is tucked away actually on top of one of the big attractions. Greenwich Brasserie, over the entrance of the National Maritime Museum. It’s a little stark in design, true, but the welcome is broad, the food lovely and the view across Greenwich Park superb. The menu changes seasonally, but you can expect a mixture of sea-themed dishes like maritime mussels, slightly edgier fare such as chorizo scotch eggs or lemon posset, and good old favorites like fish pie and macaroni cheese. Downstairs the café is perfectly nice, but tends to fill up with yummy-mummies, pushchairs and kids. Upstairs it’s quiet, elegant and tasty.
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MATT CROSSICK/EMPICS ENTERTAINMENT
For More Information
“Salacious Gossip”
www.hrp.org.uk/HamptonCourtPalace/WhatsOn
≪Chelsea Flower Show
www.rhs.org.uk/shows-events/rhs-chelsea-fower-show
Greenwich Dining
brasseriegreenwich.co.uk
At Parliament
www.parliament.visiting
Sutton House
www.nationaltrust.org.uk/sutton-house
www.londondreamtime.com
SOMEWHERE THAT COULD NEVER be accused of being quiet is the Houses of Parliament. Known the world over for its rowdy Prime Minister’s Questions and gothic bell tower, it’s easy to think that crusty old lords, Black Rod and Big Ben are all there is to it. I sat in the public gallery once, late at night, watching a debate, but to my shame had never bothered to look at the building. Tours, obviously, only take place when parliament is not sitting, so my regular partner in quirky-London, novelist Frances Hardinge, and I went for a special combined tour-and-tea on a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon.
I always forget the spectacular Westminster Hall when thinking of staggering London sights. It’s 900 years old, has the largest medieval timber roof in Northern Europe, was the scene for the trials of every one from Charles I to Guy Fawkes and is regarded so important that twice firefighters have chosen to allow the rest of parliament to burn to the ground in order to save it. The rest of the building is a glorious mixture of gilded pomp and sumptuous history, guided by welcoming experts who can answer even the toughest of questions. Afternoon tea takes place in the terrace pavilion between the fabulous Parliament buildings and the Thames. Frances and I nibbled sandwiches, slathered scones with jam and cream and poured English Breakfast tea as the sun sparkled on the river and Big Ben chimed the quarter-hours above our heads.
LONDON WAS NOT CREATED, it evolved. During the centuries, it’s left little bits behind. Clues as to what might have gone on before; gems in strange places that now seem incongruous. Sutton House is in Homerton, not far from what was known a decade ago as murder mile. The area is still not that salubrious, although these days it’s part of the hipster East End takeover and property there is reaching astronomical prices. Sutton House is from a time when the area was wealthy, though back in 1535 when it was built, it was in lush countryside. The house is looked after and opened to the public by the National Trust and is a genuinely surprising piece of architectural heritage. Because it wasn’t owned by Royalty, it has the feel of what (rich) “middling sorts” might have known and survives relatively intact, though with some charming Georgian additions. I was lucky enough to visit it at midnight, when a group called London Dream-time, who arranges various storytelling and music events in weird and wonderful places, held an evening of candlelit ghost stories in the cellar. I never know where London Dream-time are going to pop up next, but they have a mailing list which tells of upcoming happenings and the costs are rarely more than a fiver. Sutton House, of course, is open at National Trust hours.
Next time I’ll be fine-dining at London’s oldest Indian restaurant, finding out how many ingredients James II demanded in a salad and ogling the stars with the Baker Street Irregulars.
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SANDRA LAWRENCE
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