IF YOU HAD TO MAKE a wild guess, where would you put “Museum Mile” in London? South Kensington—where the Science, Natural History and Victoria & Albert museums vie for the attention of tourist and Londoner alike? Yes, I’d choose that, too. The weird thing is that apparently we’d both be wrong. The Museum Mile, not a term I’d heard before I picked up a leaflet in a library, runs between Kings Cross and the Thames north to south, from Bloomsbury in the west, just clipping the City in the east. It claims to encompass 13 museums, though I beg to disagree with it on detail. For while I fail to see how the Royal Opera House, however grand, counts as a museum, it seems almost churlish to lump the myriad strange collections at the University College London together as one entity. They’re not even in the same building. Geographical, zoological, geological, ethnological, in fact any “logical” you care to name, the UCL has an outstanding little gem that it never boasts about, but should.
These are real museums. The sort where you’d expect to find Indiana Jones’ dad up a ladder, consulting obscure tomes about exotic finds. Dusty wood and glass cases crammed with specimens, each with its own typewritten label (“Item: Unknown, Provenance: Unknown. Date: Unknown”) jostle for space. Not a button to press, not a dumbed-down “highlights” display or a laminated panel of patronizing bullet points to be found. If you’re looking for kiddie-friendly predigested history-lite, there are plenty of brightly-lit, full-of-empty-spaces modern museums. If you’re after an altogether more intense experience, UCL will do you nicely.
My favourite is the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology. It is named for William Flinders Petrie, the Egyptologist who sold his collection to the museum in 1913. It houses “approximately” 80,000 artifacts in what is basically two rooms and a back staircase, and visiting is quite a dense experience. In fact, it’s easy to miss entirely the “stars” of the show, some incredibly preserved textiles among the jumbled cases of pottery, grave goods, jewellery and mummy portraits. Keep your eyes peeled for the world’s oldest dress, a couple of ancient Egyptian hair nets, a pair of nigh-on perfect cotton sleeves, some Roman socks and sandals and a beaded dancing girl’s costume from the age of the pyramids.
SANDRA LAWRENCE
TALKING OF DISTURBING, I finally got around to paying a visit to the virtually unknown Tata Fountains in Twickenham. At first sight, they’re just a gaggle of bog-standard art nouveau nymphs frolicking in an over-the-top, rococo-style water grotto headed by winged horses. Only when you come to look at the maidens as individuals do you realize what weird positions they’re in. Not one of them looks comfortable, as they teeter, desperately clinging on to a rusticated arrangement of rocks.
Brought from Italy some time around the turn of the 20th Century to decorate a wealthy financier’s country pile, these awkward beauties became redundant while still in their packing cases when he was found guilty of fraud and died unexpectedly. The sculptures were eventually brought to Twickenham’s York House in 1904 by Ratan Tata, the Indian prince and philanthropist whose family interests include Mumbai’s Taj Mahal Hotel, coffee, tea, salt and the tiny Tata motor car. Tata held parties in York House gardens until his death in 1918. When his wife then sold the house to the council, the statues weren’t included, but they were too heavy to be moved so they stayed, fenced off, gradually getting more and more decrepit. During World War II, the poor girls were even painted sludge brown so that the moonlit brilliance of the marble wouldn’t guide enemy bombers up the Thames. A further 50-odd years of vandalism and neglect saw the maidens in such a state that they risked being crushed up for hardcore. But local citizen Elizabeth Bell-Wright led a restoration bid in the 1980s, and, after several decades of work, these peculiar fountains are now well worth a detour.
BACK IN THE CITY, and the coolest area in town—Shoreditch, which has enjoyed a huge trendification in the past couple of decades. Where once only deserted warehouses, seedy railway arches and dodgy red light districts once festered, now you won’t get much change out of a million for even a smallish apartment. It’s hardly surprising, given the quality of the housing stock and the close proximity to the Square Mile. Even so, there is a marked difference in ambiance in the couple of hundred yards between Liverpool Street Station’s harsh 80s Office Chic and The Drunken Monkey, one of Shoreditch’s coolest and quirkiest new eateries. The former Victorian pub’s dark, lush interior, simple tables and black and crimson lacquered booths, low-lit by dozens of red silk lanterns, brings to mind the opulent seediness of an ancient China that only exists today in fantasy.
The menu is classic Dim Sum, with some interesting specials thrown in among the dumplings and prawns. We ordered five items between the two of us, regretting our greed at leisure. The food arrived quickly; made using the freshest ingredients, with clear, crisp flavors. I was particularly taken by the potstickers, little fried dumplings served with a satay sauce, though what really did for me were the noodles; so tasty I was still eating them long after I stopped being hungry. The Drunken Monkey is not a quiet place for a romantic date. It’s bustling, modern and hip, with a real cosmopolitan feel, perfect for the “Meatpacking District” aura that Shoreditch exudes these days. The food is tasty and fun, though, and it would be an excellent choice if you’re planning to visit either the Geffrye Museum, farther up the road, or Dennis Severs’ House, a couple of streets away.
SANDRA LAWRENCE
WHEN I WAS VISITING the London Museum’s new Modern galleries, I took a route I’d never taken before, and (as nearly always), it paid dividends. One of the last surviving examples of World War II bomb damage left in the City is in Noble Street, just around the corner from the Barbican. Quite how it survived the major building booms of the 60s, 80s and 90s is beyond me, but what’s so great is that it’s not just any old bit of bomb damage, but the remains of a Roman fort. The fort would have been right on the northern edge of Roman Londinium. And, just for good measure, the higher the remnants of wall get, the later they get, so you have bits of medieval wall, old fireplaces and even prewar fragments all piled on top of each other. With all the building that’s suddenly begun again, little gems like this are still being unearthed. Most are covered up again, but this one is for keeps.
THIS MONTH’S CONTACTS
Museum Mile
www.museum-mile.org.uk
Tata Fountains
www.twickenham-museum.org.uk
The Drunken Monkey
www.thedrunkenmonkey.co.uk
Noble Street Walkway, EC2V 7JX
Smoke – A London Peculiar
www.smokelondon.co.uk
One Eye Grey
www.fandmpublications.co.uk
EVERY CITY HAS its underground literary scene, and London is no exception. My two favourite London-centric literary magazines are Smoke—A London Peculiar, an eclectic mix of fiction, nonfiction and, well, mad stuff, which will always be a love letter to the city, and the bizarre One Eye Grey, short, dark stories from London’s underbelly, a “21st-century Penny Dreadful.” It’s worth keeping an eye on both publications’ websites as you never know what strange events the publishers (who are amateurs in the true sense of the word—they do it because they love it) will dream up next.
Tony and I took a “Fright-Bike” guided night-time cycle ride hosted by One Eye Grey’s exuberant editor Chris Roberts. In the three-hour ride we cycled around parts of South and West London I had never been before, hearing interesting or just plain odd facts and anecdotes. Being “Fright Bikes,” the rides are usually ghostly or spooky, but the one we went on was just Roberts riffing on his favorite parts of the river.
I learned why it’s rude to drink to the health of “the little gentleman in a black velvet coat” in the presence of royalty (it’s a Jacobite toast to the mole whose hill caused William III’s horse to stumble, killing the king), listened to a romantic ode by Rossetti about his pet wombat and rode under the bridge mainly built by women (Waterloo—it was during WWII, and there were no men available). One Eye Grey’s events are unpredictable, but it’s always worth checking to see when the next walk, ride or lecture’s going on.
Next time I’ll be celebrating D-Day with a duck, testing out the Mayor’s new bicycles and visiting the least threatening Royal Beasts in Christendom.