Friday 20th December 2019

At last I dare to approach… it was supposed to a low-key wedding of Conrad and René, flung together last min. Very nearly I didn’t wear an outfit. But rounding the corner at the back of Lambetta Town Hall, there was Lord Arrowby. Total frockage! Swaggering hat, pointy shoes and … coat! A knock-out blow. I was flung back into oblivion by the force of the outfit. ‘Is it a Christmas coat?’ I said desperately fighting back. ‘What a horrid thing to say,’ Lord Arrowby murmured. There was raving over his coat, though. It was a tapestry coat by Dries. Later I had occasion to lift it onto a hanger at the venue. The weight of work, the layers, the years of tailoring expertise that must have gone into it. Such coats are only worn by the Queen usually. But no sooner had we just about come to rest over Lord Arrowby’s coat than who should hurl into view but Rufus Pitman – in full fur, with a Tyrolean hat and feather mounted high. Even Lord Arrowby’s Dries shook a little and as for my little Topman Limited Edition honey-beige frock coat. It was nothing. Luckily Burna, in lilac champagne fur, slipped in quietly later on. Another important example of outwear could have finished us off completely, before the ceremony had even begun.

The wedding itself had a noble simplicity with the glorious pared-down plainness of Poulenc, one poem by John Donne and words otherwise laid down by Lambeth Council which were very well-meaning. So they were married and it was such a triumph really, even though in reality they’ve been married for years. Then we were in the venue. Roof-top, exclusive, purring glass and shiny burnt chestnut, swarming with champagne and canapés. Conrad made a speech in French. It was all utter Heaven. Just one poem, just one speech, no waiting around for photographs or agonising sit-down dinner. We agreed that Lord Arrowby should become Royal. He agreed too. I said, ‘Let’s do Royal relations greeting,’ which is my contribution to the Christmas run-up this year. Peck, peck, curtsey. Lord Arrowby said, ‘What if an heir to a throne is meeting a Queen Dowager? Who takes precedence? I think we should know.’ Thus the administrative mind. You can see how he rose so high. Then I was rehearsed in Handel’s ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’ by Harry Rollo himself. The pauses, he said, are as important as the notes. Silence shapes the mu.   Harry would have liked Handel to have had more than one thing happening at once but there’s not much that can be done about it now. I think it was probably the age. Mercury Mr Kitten had a brain-wave for a group photo of the WAGS, which I was desperate to be in as were quite a few others regardless of qualification, such as having a big-time footballer-equivalent intimate companion with masses of money, or indeed any companion at all. I can’t think of anything better than WAG-dom apart from being Royal of course. So much less worry and strain that the big-time footballer role. Finally Reggie Cresswell said that Sophia Loren had taught herself not to groan every time she bent over once she reached the age of 60. This is the secret of eternal youth.

The Sacred Tapestry Coat by Dries of Lord Arrowby

The Furred Greatness of Rufus Pitman: Hat in Hand with Feather 

The Dress Beneath the Coat: Lord Arrowby’s Celebration Jacket

Another Exclusive Collection Item

The Cake: Not Quite Sure why There are Three in the Marriage Chamber

Wednesday 18th December 2019

December did begin of course but this year there was no moment as if a bell had rung and at once Christmas sprang forth from the place where it had been lurking all year. That happened several years ago as I was leaving the British Library one lunchtime and an amateur group were playing The Shepherds’ Lament by Berlioz in the vestibule and Christmas began.

This year the election kept Christmas at bay. Plus I’ve been wracked in the final stages of property negotiations re: my lands in the Far West. In short mineral interests are back on the cards and the terrible devastation of the Earth that I might have more face, hair, outfits and antiques. Others benefit too, of  course, in different ways. Not just me, Adrian Edge. From that perspective you will understand that the final hurdle was to get rid of Jeremy Corbyn.

But now Long-Bailey looms with her fearful specs. I’m a little trembly. How long can it go on? I was born with Mrs Dinner rushing out from the lodge to curtsey every time I passed with the Gay Mother in the half-timbered car – well, not quite. She remained indoors carefully putting away all the linen and tea-towels the Gay Grandmother had given he. Keeping for best – in other words, never.

What to do about those less fortunate while those born to lands and minerals thrive?

Meanwhile, the glory of December has been the Conrad/René wedding. How can I even dare approach such a wonder? I do not dare. I’m putting it off.

Rufus Pitman had already given, early in the month, a fabulous function to mark the visit of German Royal Relations. That means a long-standing German friend from the university world if you look at it from a non-Gay point of view. We were also honoured with the presence of Parisian Gay Royalty.

Everyone’s Royal if you try hard enough.

What an evening! Harry Rollo did a magical impression of a friend of his aunt being asked where she lived. Much of it was pure sound conveying the Upper Class occupying space. ‘Where do you live, Mrs Courtney-Wildman?’ So she goes: ‘Well, you see…..had to find somewhere with trees… no 11 bus.. simply marvellous… 1942… Dunkirk absolutely ghastly… . really out of the question… lawst a leg…. got rid of the laurel hedge… perfectly awful War…. ‘ Somehow all this culminated in ‘East Putney.’ As rendered by Harry it made perfect sense. He and Mercury Mr Kitten had been in Helsinki. In fact they were in transit from the airport, hadn’t even been home. In Helsinki there were many factions and there’d been a failure to appoint a viola player. A new line is being taken on Sibelius which is that he didn’t compose for the last 50 years of his life in order to remain sober. It was the composing that drove him to drink.  Who knew?

Rufus and I were v. busy picking over the goings-on in Darmstadt c1876. Will anyone ever get to the bottom of how the Battenburgs and the Hesse-Darmstadts are related? As a going-away present Rufus lent me Hugo Vickers’ Life of Princess Alice, mother of the Duke of Edinburgh. Her mother was Hesse-Darmstadt. Her aunt was the Tsarina. It’s the Coburg story all over again. Someone should look into it. These small-time German Houses had an amazing knack for getting onto all the best Thrones, sometimes with not entirely pleasant consequences.

In parting I did Royal Relations parting (or greeting) which is peck, peck, curtsey in one continuous movement. V.difficult to do. Especially after 3 or 4 bottles of champagne. But it’s my contribution to  Christmas 2019.

I should add that this event was vegetarian. But still radiant. Because Raj Zoroaster has gone vegetarian. I’d got it into my head he was born vegetarian but he can’t have been. I’m afraid it’s racist, one’s ignorance of the sub-continent. Anyway, Reggie Cresswell and Lord Tanza were pleased. They’ve been touring endlessly, a bit like Elton John but much rarer venues.

Saturday 14th December 2019

Our great Nation. I know many, even Poor Little Rich Gays, are bitterly disappointed by the events of yesterday. Joshua Baring foresaw a hung parliament, Royston and Prince Dmitri were in trepidation. The Multis (oh yes, there’s been speaking) had no doubts whatsoever – which I suppose is why they became what they afterwards became. Never any doubts at least as far as the Nation’s shape is concerned.

All I can say is: there must always be diamonds, and cars at the door and Greatnesses going forth towards them. People can do better than a B&Q front door.

I feared being wheeled in a cart to Brent Cross, where I was informed the first guillotines were to be set up – just to get started in guillotining. Or at least a family billeted upon me who would burn all my furniture.

Our Great Nation. Our glory has always been huge change without bloodshed, destruction or upheaval. Hence we got ahead in the 19th while other countries were still having revolutions. Now we must face another change with nothing to fall back on but the greatness of our Nation, We fought to halt it. Nobody can say it’s a sensible thing to do. But, in truth, the battle was lost some time ago, probably in September when the opposition parties failed to unite to oust Boris Johnson.

By the way, I longed to have confab with Rachel, the Prime Ministerial sister, at the Literary Review party last week. She was much involved with Dainty Lady TV, you know. Her husband does pieces to camera for Dainty in the same way that I do. Yes! I’m that close to Downing Street.

But I couldn’t get near her for toadies.

We must try to insert Poor Little Rich Gays into Downing Street – to advise, for ££££… general thinking, clothes, hair, curtains… Poor Little Rich Gays have so much to offer.

I suppose, should anything happen to ‘Boris’ – it is a worry because he’s very fat and hunched. I do hope doctors are crawling all over him – that funny old father will take over.

One year ago, Royston door-stepped the old father at the National Portrait gallery announcement event for their new refurb – and got a coup. The reason ‘Boris’ had to stand down in the leadership election in 2016 was Nick Boles hid his phone.

Wednesday 4th December 2019

The Gay Mother is giving up the weekly task of laying out the Communion wine, a job from which she retired 20 years ago at the age of 75 on account of being too old. But somehow she resumed the mantle. I used to have one conversation with the Vicar or rather the same conversation on each meeting which went…. ‘My mother gave up… 75…. and now she’s back on….’ It was clear from the Vicar’s glazed look that it was the Will of God and that was that. If she were to fall in the chancel trying to lift the Cross from the windowsill, then be assured God would be styling the event in every detail.

Laying out the Communion wine is not just laying out the Communion wine. There is a great deal of linen work, ironing and cloth ritual involved, as well as altar fronts to be changed according to the religious season and of course the more priceless cup got out at Christmas and Easter.

The thing is: what is really happening? ‘I’m giving it up,’ the Gay Mother told me firmly in her drawing room. ‘Who is going to do it instead?’ ‘I don’t know. Nothing to do with me. I’ve handed over the key of that iron box in the vestry.’ But what about the other paraphernalia?  The wafers she seems to be holding hostage in the tulip cake tin. ‘You’re rather fond of that tin, aren’t you?’ she said. My God! Fond! I’ve rescued it from the rubbish tip once.It was a weeny bit rusty inside but nothing a Brillo pad couldn’t deal with. The tin is otherwise a masterpiece – huge Rembrandt tulips on a black ground. That’s it. So bold. ‘I don’t think I’ll give it to them,’ she said. Torment. Just imagine if that tin fell into the hands of the Church!

At all costs that fate must be averted.

Sunday 1st December 2019

To the National Portrait Gallery for the Director’s Reception. All the people who really run Britain, so much so the least significant figure was Matt Hancock, a mere Government minister without tenure. V unimportant grey school suit. Sir Robin Janvryn, on the other hand, once Private Secretary to Her Majesty, had that supremely Royal way of terminating a conversation after two minutes maximum. One Pin was leaving her post at the National Portrait Gallery. Her speech was entirely about the Royal Family. Her Late Majesty the Queen Mother visited in her 100th year. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ they said, banking on her saying No. But she said Yes. So up to the Portrait Restaurant they went. It turned out she didn’t want tea, she wanted Gin and Dubonnet so someone had to sprint on foot down the Mall to Clarence House to fetch it. Others in the restaurant appeared not to have noticed the presence of the most radiant Majesty of all time but when she stood up to leave there was a standing ovation. She insisted on going into the kitchen to thank the staff, even though they had not supplied the gin and dubonnet. Many of them fell to the floor at the honour.

There was another figure of shattering importance at the Director’s Reception but I can’t remember who it was. Royston was worried about the Director’s attitude to the Victorian portraits amongst which we were situated. Several were by Sargent, so you wouldn’t think they’d be thrown away. There was a fabulous portrait of the leader of the GLC in 1880 (or equivalent body). A fiery, wiry small man. Of course nobody now has a clue who it is. But the picture still worth looking at.

We left the reception having very satisfactorily found out that the Director’s suit was by Paul Smith and went underground in a nearby street. Here Miss PussycatBangkok was performing her delirious cabaret with scantily-clad gay boys. She announced further engagements at Elephant and Castle and Cheltenham. It seemed unlikely that anyone would dare not to go.

Monday 25th November 2019

At last there was hope – the  visit to Waterford was a start: we lunched in the Bishop’s Palace which is a Georgian mansion. Its museum is guide only, so we didn’t take it. Even though the Gay Mother’s friend had given things. Much talk in the car, driving round Waterford looking at ancestral properties now gone, about all the Generals who were her ancestors. Waterloo, of course, and Corunna. Her General, as it happens, was amongst those who lowered Sir John Moore into the grave. Now, our neighbours in the Far West – their ancestor was one of the others. The Gay Mother remembers the blood-stained sash mixed up with the everyday gloves and scarves on their hall table in the 1950s, before it was whisked away to a museum eventually.

On the final day at last full Irish Georgian was possible. We drove to Russborough in the Wicklow Mountains. Immediate thrill with the Irish Georgian which has fascinated since I took Mount Congreve in the Spring. Incredibly bare and austere with sudden lavish outbursts. This one isn’t flat, but so long it won’t fit in a graph. A main block and two dinky wings connected by curved arcades, none of the individual elements on a grand scale particularly but the whole ensemble of such length, although low. The features in the main facade are in fact not pronounced, appear to be receding and the windows are small, leaving expanses of grey stone. Eccentric and not conforming. Within coved ceilings and much bizarre plaster work of great craftmanship, strong colours. The great thing is the house was owned by the Beits from the 1950s. Sir Alfred Beit – diamonds. So even now lashings of heavenly money and lovely things, as a country house should be, secluded with lovely things and no other dwellings in sight. Twice the Beits were robbed; they were thrown down the stairs by Rose Dugdale and her accomplices, on behalf of the IRA, and their Vermeer removed. They got it back. Their rate of recovery from both burglaries was good. Now bollards have been placed to stop just anybody driving up and removing all the best things. The finest paintings have been taken to the National Gallery of Ireland in Dublin.

The house was heaven, like a really good fruit cake with royal icing. The Gay Mother grilled the guide about the original builder of the house, one Leeson from Dublin. Was he a good landlord? Did he treat the tenants well and did he drive out alien species?

We drove on over the Wicklow Mountains which were pure mahogany at this time of year. But the Gay Mother wasn’t one hundred per cent behind them, I could tell. I think she was thinking they were like Scotland. Then we got to Glendalough, mainly to see the hotel where we nearly stayed, which I booked and then, having a sudden vision, a bit like that of Mary and Joseph who were told in a dream to go back home the long way, I cancelled. We’re barely got a few feet into Glendalough and the Gay Mother was saying, ‘Oh I’d have hated it here. So low down. All you’d be thinking about would be –  how to get out.’ We chugged on through Glendalough. ‘It’s a place where people go on Sundays,’ she said. Well, it was a Sunday. Such was her aversion to Glendalough that when I said we’d have to turn the car round and go back through it, she said, ‘Oh no!’

Back at our actual hotel, the Gay Mother was much pre-occupied with Rose Dugdale. In the orange drawing room/pub she said loudly, ‘Was she sorry they threw the Beits down the stairs?’ I consulted Wikipedia which said she’d been the guest of honour at some kind of Heroes of the Republic dinner in 2014 in Dublin. So presumably not. Luckily none of the gin and jigs crowd noticed our conversation and there was no subsequent bomb outrage mercifully. We rested in our rooms. The Gay Mother’s book was crumbly, though. It was about India, a paperback, some years old.

For our last night, the Gay Mother chose to sample the third eating option of the hotel; we’d exhausted the possibilities of the orange pub/drawing room. Fine dining was only available on Fridays and Saturdays. We’d had it on the Friday and the Gay Mother had survived all the courses. All that day beforehand she kept saying, ‘Do you think you have to have all six courses?’ In the end we managed to wangle one of the courses on a sharing basis. And some of others weren’t really courses at all but bites.

So the third option was a shed across the car park called ‘The Haggard’. Here you could have an ancient Irish peasant experience in a bare white barn, none too warm, with log fires and no other guests. Jigs playing,  of course. You ordered from the boy then self-collected from the hatch. Half a chicken and chips, burger and chips or fish and chips. I said to the boy, ‘How about a light red wine?’ He had quite a selection of bottles. I could see them on a shelf behind him. He said, ‘I don’t know. I don’t drink wine.’ When we were summoned to the hatch, the essential Irish experience was delivered by two beaming Filipino women, thankful to have any trade at all, I should think.

Being in the Haggard was quite thrilling and we managed to keep warm by huddling up to the log fire.

The last thing of significance in Ireland happened the next morning in the breakfast room where a mournful old Irish tenor poured forth sad old Irish songs from the wall. ‘What are you doing?’ I said to the Gay Mother. ‘That napkin,’ she said, ‘I didn’t like it. Not nicely ironed.’ She’d flipped it away and got hold of another one.

After that, we left Ireland and returned by air to the Far West.

Russborough: Eccentric and Not Conforming

Russborough: So long it Won’t Fit in a Graph

The View from Russborough House: As it Should Be

Russborough: the Dining Room. Weird Fireplaces throughout the House

Russborough: the Dining Room: We’ve got Silver Like this

Russborough: the Drawing Room

Russborough: the Library

Russborough: a Cosy Corner: Glorious Woodwork

Painting of the Beits by Derek Hill, friend of James Lees-Milne. Not Awfully Good

Russborough: the Stairs

Can’t Remember who This is: Something to do with the Mitfords, I think

Friday 22nd November 2019

First thing the next day, the Gay Mother says she wants to visit New Grange – the Megalithic place. So that was the end of Irish Georgian. The Visitor Centre was closed and the temporary toilets were sodden. ‘Look, it says 600m to walk to the bus,’ I said encouragingly. Only the day before the Gay Mother had been wheeled at Dublin airport. All the other tourists dashed past. I thought that somehow we would be subsumed in their slipstream into oblivion. When finally we gained the bus stop though, the drivers magnificently had the air of not being in any hurry and not because of waiting for the Gay Mother either. The bus then wound though miles and miles of Irish countryside, although you could see New Grange up on the hillside. They make a drama of getting to it for effect, I suppose. New Grange is the Irish Stonehenge, Val had said. But it’s not a Henge, it’s a Grange.

It was a fair old walk from the bus to the Grange, after all that. As Val had promised, the guide was excellent. These Megalithics – well, they’d done decorative stonework for the outside of their grange, which is really a huge burial mound, although nobody seems to have been buried in it. I bucked up a bit at the decorative stone work. The scheme is really very attractive and the Megas had gone to great trouble to get the different stones. Definitely an inspiration if you were thinking of doing some grand-scale landscaping of your own, maybe some tiered terracing in the Megalithic style.

The great thing though – the mystery of the Grange is when you go inside. It’s almost a crawling entrance, tiny narrow passage to the inner sanctum, so well-built no damp ever penetrates. The Grange is twice as old as the Henge, by the way. Were it not for electric light, the chamber would be in complete darkness. No light penetrates from the entrance. Except … at the Winter solistice. For some days in December, at 9 a.m. a beam of light shines in. They reproduce the effect for you artificially. Only the very great of Ireland are allowed in to see the actual thing.

‘They must have been very clever,’ the Gay Mother said. There was quite a surge amongst the visitors towards the Ancients. We were thrilled with them and their Grange. So much so we walked all round it after the interior visit. They made their mark, these unknown people who left no other mark. It’s encouraging, isn’t it? All is not lost – quite.

On the bus back the great ancientness of the Gay Mother was beginning to sink it a bit with the Ukranian-Americans who let her barge the queue. But of course they were ruthlessly scheduled for their coaches so we slowly made our way back along the 600 metre path alone. Catering was reduced to a caravan in the carpark. ‘I hope you’re not going to be in here all the winter,’ I said. Mercifully the Visitor Centre was soon to reopen, so at least we haven’t got to worry about those catering people being outdoors all winter. We had a hefty ham sandwich to eat in the car before departing New Grange. The Gay Mother didn’t want all hers and took in back to the hotel wrapped in a paper napkin where she had it semi-legally at tea.

New Grange: the Sacred Entrance which isn’t Easy to Enter Through Deliberately: they did those Stones too

New Grange: the Decorative Stonework: All Their own Work

New Grange: a Bigger View

New Grange: Round the Back

The Gay Mother’s Ham Sandwich from Lunch at New Grange, Smuggled into the Pub/Palm Court at Barberstown Hotel at Tea-time: There weren’t cakes or fancies for Tea in fact: only Biscuits

Sunday 17th November 2019

I’ve only ever been to Ireland once and that was Dublin about 3 years ago with Reggie Cresswell to see a perf by Harry Rollo and Bertram DiBantry with another world-known performer who carries rocks from one of his homes at all times, which the airport security people find troubling.

Then suddenly this year I’ve been twice – to rural Ireland. But not the West. How I long to see the West and follow in Reggie Cresswell’s footsteps when he traced Yeats’ footsteps there with his mother. Lissadell. I schemed and schemed to get there but in the end it was just too far with our schedule. The Gay Mother wanted to see her dead friend’s daughter – her friend Miss A who died in March which was the occasion of my going to Ireland then. Funny though how she didn’t think of going to Ireland while Miss A was still alive. In the end they could only communicate by letter because Miss A was too deaf for the telephone.  As always, though, Death spurs a lot of activity that wouldn’t have been thought of otherwise. It’s one of the advantages. Miss A was a hard-line Abstract artist, who enjoyed late success. Much influenced by HH. It was my idea to visit Ireland and I developed mental health issues trying to arrange it. We had a v. narrow escape with a hotel. How to cover Ireland in 3 days with someone of 95, flying to Dublin from the Far West Airport, and the central purpose being to visit Miss A’s daughter. I consulted Val and Prince Dmitri, I booked and unbooked so many hotels, surely giving rise to comment on the platform.  Irish Georgian was my great goal. New Grange was mentioned by Val – megalithic. No thank you.

I thought the Gay Mother would never accept the assistance at the airport because it was a wheel-chair. But she did and was wheeled and rather loved it. But you could see how once in a wheelchair as far as everyone else is concerned you’re fully incapable. The Gay Mother in fact is self-driving, self-cooking, self-shopping, self-walking, with all her faculties. One of the wheelers, on the return journey, possibly the Head of the Far West Airport, looked as if she was about to commit the Gay Mother to a Twilight Home on the spot.

Anyway, we gained Ireland and went straight to Barberstown Hotel, about 20 miles from Dublin to the west, near Munooth, where there was a lot of trouble in the 1840s re: the British gov funding the Catholic priest training school there. Barberstown was once the residence of Eric Clapton. It became apparent that the wing where we were was new, so it was really Country-House-Style, rather than actual country house. The corridor was thoroughly common, sadly. Antiques, antiques, antiques though. ‘I’m not a great fan of four-poster beds,’ the Gay Mother said later. There were two of everything including sofas, but only 3 very dim table lamps. If you wanted to find your clothes, you had to face the horror of the full over-head glare from the chandelier. As you know, I’ve fought all my life against over-head lighting.

After resting and settling in to hotel life, we took an evening drive into Dublin which the Gay Mother had never seen in all her life. Tremendous traffic, but we saw St Stephen’s Green and Merrion Square and the Custom House by the Liffey which I never saw when there before – all without getting out of the car. Ideal.

Back at the hotel, we had fish of the day. The hotel didn’t have a restaurant as usually known. It was brasserie type food in an extraordinary newly-built conservatory-like structure with music piped and people who should probably be described as drinkers. The fish of the day was a modest sea-bass filet in a bowl with pototoes and huge qualities of tomato and pepper sauce. The Gay Mother didn’t approve. Wine by the glass was like what you get in a pub that hasn’t gone in for wine in an important way.

Barberstown Hotel Corridor – a bit of Giveaway. MDF and Blue Carpet with Fleur de Lys

The Room at Barberstown Hotel

Wednesday 13th November 2019

I’ve been in Ireland. Otherwise at the heart of the Establishment. The launch of A.N.Wilson’s biog of Prince Albert was some time ago. I was imported by Beamish O’Halloran of the Mail and expected to know no-one.  Need not have worried: the people who really run Britain were wall-to-wall, such as Ann Leslie, the editor of Debrett’s, Marmion Malfeasance, and, of course, Lady Magnesia. Only Royston King was missing. It’s unusual to actually read a book whose launch one has been at, but I’m making progress with this one. After 62 years on this earth, I’ve finally grasped not just what the Repeal of the Corn Laws was all about, but the Corn Laws themselves. Is this too late? Why does it satisfy to acquire knowledge when one may have only a few years left knowing it? The Corn Laws were a bit like Brexit apparently, although Jeremy Corbyn will be worse if you ask me.

By the way, I’ve been wondering what Jeremy Corbyn’s drawing room is like.

A.N.Wilson says that Victoria and Albert were really two women. This is because Prince Albert was gay in all but sexual preference. The symptoms are:  ‘…. obsession with interior decoration, painting, music and desire for order and control.’ This is a bit of cheek but I like it.

Thursday 24th October 2019

We went to Urbino after 20 years. Raphael’s House – loved the heavy wooden ceilings, white walls and streaming tiled floors. The arrangement of the house slightly skew, allowing surprise outdoor cloisters; essentially an enclosed house but with light cutting in at dramatic angles. The textures the best thing – plaster, wood and tiles. Very satisfying. And old.

Then after a simple lunch –  the Ducal Palace. The courtyard one of the glories of the world surely, although not by a big-name architect. Without the Palace is a massive medieval-type ruthless fortification. Within the courtyard must have astonished in its day, the colour of strawberry fool, the living geometry of the arcades and the huge mass of the palace above cleverly stepped back so as not to weigh down. The art museum the palace contains though – oh dear! Room upon room of dirty boiling primis, and later works, absolutely no apology, really screaming, Don’t bother to look at these. So great build-up to the grande opera del Museo. I’d completely forgotten that the Flag of Christ by Piero was there. But utter horror, it’s been taken out of its frame, put into the grip of intrusive steels claws which hold it up for view and encased in glass. Also surrounded by a huge display explaining all the different interpretations of the work. So just reduced to nothing more than a scientific specimen really. Similar treatment for their Raphael, La Muta – although at the National Portrait Gallery event on Monday I was informed by Cousin Lancing, who is huge at Christie’s, that the Urbino Raphael is questionable as a Raphael.

I’d like to see these provincial museums making more effort to engage visitors with the less well-known works. Otherwise nobody will ever look at them and what is the point?  In the end, they’ll just be thrown away. And then, in the opposite direction, don’t overdo it with your opera famosa. Let them speak for themselves

The day before we went to San Marino because we’d never been there. Strange: you could tell somehow that it wasn’t Italy. Not just the joke policepersons in tangerine and blue. All these toy places, such as Monaco, have joke policepersons. Nor the special number plates. San Marino is really just a high-up small city, perched on a rock. You can see why it remained independent. So it’s all very miniature and just a bit silly, but there’s this undertow of huge amounts of tax-free money, summed up by the number of young men in business suits prancing about in what otherwise appears to be a resort and the sublime international princess waitress at luncheon – skinny jeans, bronzer, nails, hair and cleavage. Quite useless as a waitress but no doubt essential for the glamour side of the tax-free money.

We crawled about the ancient fortifications before going back to the hotel at Pesaro.

Raphael’s Dining Room at Urbino

Raphael’s Drawing Room with Wooden Ceiling

Unbearable Greatness: the Courtyard the Ducal Palace at Urbino

Pillar Work at Urbino Ducal Palace Urbino

Horror! The Flag Imprisoned in a Box

La Muta by Raphael (??) Also Horrid Display

The Staircase of the Palazzo Ducale at Urbino. This was how Stairs were Done before Cantilevering

The Inlay Work in the Duke’s Study: Heaven

San Marino: Blue and Tangerine Policeman

More San Marino Police

San Marino: the Fortifications