In which I am haunted by Sir Flinders Petrie...
Sir Flinders Petrie, by Phillip DeLazslo, 1934.
Not long ago, while preparing my most recent paper, I came across Sir Flinders Petrie*. I didn’t know much about him, not having formally studied archaeology, but his name was vaguely familiar. An artist I am researching, Henry Holiday, went to Petrie when he wanted to know more about Egyptian costume and architecture, which resulted in Holiday offering to do some illustrations for a new text Petrie was preparing. Holiday sent along a pupil to prepare some tracings from Petrie’s collection, and rather romantically, the student ended up marrying Petrie (you immediately thought the student was male, didn’t you? For shame.)
I was of course charmed by this story, being the sap that I am, and imagined all sorts of vignettes whereby Hilda and Flinders huddled close over some Egyptian tablet, examining the ancient glyphs and casting shy but endearing glances over their spectacles at each other. I think there is a book in that…
In any case, that wasn’t the last of Sir Petrie. He has been dogging me throughout my sojourn in London, which has been quite lovely. I arrived on Friday afternoon; my gent meeting me at the train platform looking charmingly scruffy… perhaps a bit like Petrie might have after an archaeological adventure (c’mon, we ALL grew up on Indy!). This trip we left our normal haunt of Bloomsbury aside and stayed in South Kensington - I may be a convert! The hotel was roomy for London, with a fridge and tall windows overlooking a busy street. It was a bit noisy (we were just above a popular but EXTREMELY over-priced bar), and the breakfast was boring, but overall I liked the place, which was less than a minute from the tube (which didn’t help me this morning, what with a tube strike, but more on this later).
T. and I then did a bit of shopping (new Birks for my trip to Budapest!), and later met up with Rachel for dinner at a tasty Swedish restaurant. Sadly, they were a bit cheeky in the end, as Rach ended up ordering exactly what was on their 3-course dinner, yet they insisted on charging her full price because she didn’t tell them up front she was having that. So we won’t go back there.
Saturday as a research day at the National Art Library, and it was quite productive. Petrie’s name appeared again in a few sources, and I’m convinced that he must have always been lurking, only waiting for my notice so that I could finally see that he was, like love, all around us. Speaking of love, my own adventurer treated me to a delicious Mediterranean dinner Saturday night, followed by my first “West End Theatre” experience - Tom Stoppard’s “Arcadia”. I love this play; it is so very clever (as is most of Stoppard’s work). The plot is set at a country estate and is set in both the early 19th century, where the Enlightenment garden is being transformed into a picturesque Romantic fantasy (monstrosity?), complete with a hermit; and in the present day, where silly academics have descended to research the history of the garden, and perhaps even prove that Byron one visited - and murdered a cuckolded husband in a duel! Snappy dialogue, fantastic costumes, and great acting (even if Samantha Bond was a smidge too old for the role of Hannah). I really need to go to the theatre more.
Sunday was a somewhat more relaxing day, with a nice lie in, brunch at Le Pain Quotidian, and a stroll the galleries of the V&A that I have only just discovered I have never visited. The new Theatre & Performance Galleries are lovely, and I’ve somehow missed the jewellery gallery on my numerous visits. Which means that I’ve managed to miss the amazing collection of Arts & Crafts and Art Nouveau objects, including May Morris’ personal collection - which includes the belt Jane Morris wore in Astarte Syriaca! Yes, I was more than a little giddy at seeing this; I’m such a geek. Fan-fucking-tastic. That evening we enjoyed a delicious meaty meal at an Argentinean steak house that was just downstairs, sangria included. We’ll definitely go back there again.
My sweetie left on Monday morning to get back to work, and I headed to the Courtauld to do some more research. It was quite productive, and I have another geeky note to share, which will be greatly appreciated by some of you. Guess what I held in my own two little hands?
Indeed, and I had several other wonderful discoveries, which I will leave for my research for the moment.
On my way home, since I was on my own, I decided to do something terribly touristy which I’ve never done before - I went to Harrod’s. My bag was quite heavy so I didn’t walk around a ton (and had already hit my shopping quota for the trip), but I really just wanted to see the food halls, having heard how fab they were. And they didn’t disappoint at all… a gourmand’s dream! Interspersed between the fine produce, imported meats, cheeses, and caviar, were a variety of different food counters serving their finest fare: an oyster bar, posh diner style counters serving seafood, tapas, fresh rotisserie, deli sandwiches, sushi… you name it. This also seems to be where the singletons dine, and being that I was flying solo, I settled down for some pricey but absolutely divine Dim Sum. Yes, I’d do that again!
Tuesday morning was a bit more research, followed by a meeting of the Steering Committee for the research project I work for. The meeting was at the British Academy headquarters at Carlton House Terrace, and the building was gorgeous! And as I walked into the exquisite Georgian chamber where we were to meet, whose portrait was immediately gazing back at me? Indeed, it was the dashing elder Sir Flinders Petrie, painted in 1934 for Phillip De Laszo. In a slightly crumpled grey suit, white hair and pointed beard, he held the wisdom of the ancients in his penetrating gaze. Ah, Flin, what did those eyes see in your time?
After the meeting I decided I’d have a stroll around Mayfair, another thing I’d been meaning to do for some time. I hopped the bus to Green Park, and then walked up to Berkeley Square where bikers were out having a rally in support of the Tube workers about to go on strike. I admired the Regency townhouses, which feature so regularly in the trashy novels that are my brain candy. From there I wandered over to Grosvenor Square, wishing I knew off hand the address of the formers Grosvenor Gallery. Imagining myself strolling in a flattering but rational Aesthetic Dress, I wandered along the square until I came to an absolutely hideous monstrosity of a mid-twentieth century building. Moulded concrete with long narrow windows, I mourned the loss of the lovely townhouses that gave up their life for this eyesore. I then noticed it must be some sort of government building, as it had the same huge black barricades found outside Parliament, and lots of security gates out front. My eyes drifted upwards, and then I noticed the massive, obnoxious eagle perched ominously at the top of the building, and another familiar but somewhat out of place (in London) site flying high above the bird: the American Flag. Oh. That hideous building is the American Embassy. So if you are ever in trouble and need help, just head for the ugliest building in London. After Centre Point, of course.
I wandered up Upper Grosvenor Street admiring the sometimes-dilapidated townhouses. I should have headed to Upper Brook Street as well, but my stomach was starting to growl, and then hopped a bus at Hyde Park back to my new little neighbourhood. I dropped off my bag, freshened up, then wandered out again to find somewhere for a hearty meal. I walked deeper into the neighbourhood, and discovered what is my new favourite restaurant in all of the UK: Bumpkin. I had the most divine fresh sourdough bread, cream of mushroom soup, and a rump steak with chips. Oh, and a perfect Bloody Mary. I was absolutely stuffed, and sorely missed T., as he could have helped finish the steak! I wisely took a walk before heading back, through Onslow Gardens, where I would desperately like to have a flat. Walking distance to the V&A, and close to everything wonderful about London. Oh lotto, hurry up and grace me with millions.
This morning the tube strike was in full swing. So without a long-winded moan, lets just say getting from South Ken to Euston was an adventure in its own right. But as I walked from Warren Street Station to Euston, I had one last encounter with the man haunting my days - a tourist sign pointing down Gower Street to the Petrie Museum. Flin was a Prof at UCL, and Gower Street is where my own Prof and I usually stay when in London. So Sir Petrie was always there, just hovering and waiting… but he’ll have to wait a bit longer for my visit to his museum. Next time, Flin… I’m on my way back to Glasgae noo.
*Forgive the Wikipedia link, but he is so worth a further look... not only the Father of Modern Egyptology, and the teacher of Howard Carter, but upon his death he donated his HEAD to the Royal College of Surgeons so they could study his advanced intellectual capacity. My new hero!