Hail Britannia, Part Four

Another day, another full agenda. Our trip was nearing its end, and I began moving in faster and faster motion. First on the itinerary was a brisk walk around the corner to the Victoria and Albert Museum. It was just going to be a quick visit today -- we were visiting only one room.

On the way in, I took a fancy to this lovely ornamental ironwork that bordered the museum...

...and was delighted to discover it repeated as a motif inside.

I handed Luca the museum map and and pointed to my favorite room. He accepted the challenge. I followed his little steps as he directed me past the ancient statuary...

...down the beautiful halls...

...and into the room that to me, is Christmas itself, the Textile Study Room. All of these enormous cabinets house the most precious embroideries in existence. And do you see all the brass handles? Give them a tug and out comes a framed treasure. Samplers, embroidered clothing, textile patterns, dating from the 1500's to the 1900's -- there is a selection of everything you can think of. Along the wall are tables so that you can prop them up and drool over them at your leisure.  

I love this little school handkerchief. I find its austerity quite modern.

At one point, I turned around and saw this amazing framed piece of fabric created by the Bloomsbury Group. I was overjoyed. It hadn't been displayed on my last visit.

I would totally upholster a pillow (or even a chair) in it today. Wouldn't you?

Next is the most heartbreaking work of embroidery I've ever seen.  Made around 1830 by a young woman named Elizabeth Parker, it's an autobiography in thread:  the story of her early life in domestic service and the horrible trials she underwent from various employers, nearly leading to suicide.

Some haunting extracts: 

"...Then I went to Fairleigh, [as] housemaid to Captain O., but they treated me with cruelty too horrible to mention....For trying to avoid the wicked design of my master I was thrown downstairs...I never told my friends what had happened to me...I acknowledge being guilty of that great sin of self-destruction....Day and night have I cried..." 

It ends abruptly with the words, "...what will become of my soul." Difficult as it was to tear myself away from it, I find it even harder to stop thinking about now.

I was also struck by this 18th century sampler because the little girl who embroidered it was only seven years old, the same age as Luca. I thought he would find it fascinating.

He didn't.  Strike one for Mommy.

So we hightailed it to the cafe, where his mood lifted enough to notice the incredible painted ceiling above us.

We both thought the orb lights were pretty amazing, too.

Then it was off to the National Portrait Gallery near Trafalgar Square.  Upon entering, Luca was handed this wonderful activity book, along with a handful of colored pencils.  He was thrilled and so was I.

Every room became an adventure...

...and an exciting chance to record history.

He was obsessed with this young man's frilly high-waisted outfit. I told him people used to dress like that, but he point-blank refused to believe me. "How do you know he wasn't going to a costume party?", he said.

There was a quick detour to St. Martin-in-the-Fields, where Luca did this brass rubbing of a bear...

...and a dash to Hatchard's, the oldest bookseller in London (or close to it)...

...where the sales clerks dress jauntily in shirt and tie and are erudite beyond all telling.  The oh-so-elegant shop boasts what I consider to be the most well-edited five floors of books in London.  The Queen has given it her Royal Seal of Approval, so you know you're in good hands.

Finally, it was next door to the mother of all grocery purveyors, Fortnum and Mason.

I tremble every time I cross the threshold.

Everything they sell is heartstoppingly delicious. And the red carpet has me at hello.

I feverishly scanned the store until I spotted my Holy Grail: the jam section.

There, in all its glory, were pots and pots of my beloved rose petal jam, along with about fifty other mouthwatering selections.  I loaded up my metal basket as quickly as I could, as ever since my jam post, I have been inundated with requests to bring some back.  (One pot is for you, dear readers.  I'll let you know when it arrives.)

I also purchased some biscuits...

...and Gentleman's Relish, a highly touted concoction of anchovies and spices. (I asked the salesman what it tasted like and he replied, "Fishy and salty." That was good enough for me.)

Their food hampers have been world-renowned for hundreds of years and justly so. One day I vow to order myself one.

After Fortnum's, Luca and I returned to the hotel, met up with The Divine Italian and hailed a black cab to Barnes, a posh suburb south of the Thames, where Luca was having his first international sleepover and Piero and I were having our first night off.

We had been invited to join four friends for dinner at one of the most long-standing private clubs in London, The Chelsea Arts Club. 

Founded by James McNeil Whistler in 1899, it's been a central gathering place for revolutionaries, bohemians, and intellectuals for over 100 years.

Imagine a place where everyone resembles Lucien Freud, David Hockney or Sir Ian McKellan and the women are all wild-eyed and passionate and you'll start to get the idea. Everywhere I turned, I was greeted by a wild shock of hair, a lilac velvet smoking jacket or a silk foulard flung carelessly around someone's neck.  Those were the men. The women were intense and lovely with lashings of red lipstick and fervent gazes.

We had a delicious meal that went on for hours, the kind of dinner where laughter gives way to more bottles of wine being opened and you hope that it never ends. At one point, we all noticed that the wait staff had cleaned the entire restaurant except our table. On the way out, I snuck this single photo. 

I'm kind of loving a dark painted wall right now. With candlelight and gold accents, I think it's terribly glamorous.  On the wall are paintings of previous members enjoying themselves in the very room we were in.  Lovely.

After that, we all repaired to The Gore for a post-prandial cocktail.  (Please don't ask how I felt the next morning.)

We had one more day in London and I went camera-free, so I'm afraid we've reached the last of my photos. We went to the park, we browsed, we dallied, and on our last night we all had dinner at Shoreditch House in the East End with some expat friends and their too-too adorable three year old twins. As we drove back to the hotel, we pressed our noses to the window to take in every last beautiful sight.

That's all she wrote.