East Sussex (4) Rottingdean and The Devil's Dyke

A Seaside Village and a Geological Oddity

Although we now live 220 miles apart, I have seen more of my sister Erica in the last few years than for a long time. That is good, I enjoy her company and that of Peter, her new(ish) husband. We went to stay for a few days and this post covers the places we visited.

East Sussex

Peter and Erica live in Heathfield, pretty much in the centre of East Sussex. On previous visits we have explored the east of the county (links at end of post), this time we looked west. Lewes (next post), the County Town of East Sussex can be seen on the map southwest of Heathfield and continuing in the same direction brings you to the coast at Rottingdean

The County of East Sussex
Heathfield to Rottingdean is approximately 25 miles (40 km)

The map misleadingly shows Brighton and Hove as discrete dots. They are much larger than that and in 1997 were combined as a single unitary authority. In January 2001 they became the City of Brighton and Hove. By far the largest population centre in East Sussex, the city has 275,00 citizens and occupies the whole south west corner of the county, encompassing Portslade, Patcham and Rottingdean.

Rottingdean

Brighton & Hove

In the Kingdom of the South Saxons (now ‘Sussex’) in the late 5th century CE a group of Saxons following a man called Rota settled near the coast at the end of a dry valley, probably displacing the previous Romano-British inhabitants. The dean (valley) of the people of Rota had become Rotingeden in the Domesday Book (1086) and tried out various spellings over subsequent centuries before settling on Rottingdean. Yes, they had choices, and they chose Rottingdean!

Despite its name, Rottingdean is a pretty village in the local style…

Rottingdean

…with vernacular buildings of various ages sitting harmoniously together, though perhaps not looking their best on a cold, blustery February day.

Rottingdean

The main street ends at the beach where a seething, angry sea with an evident desire to invade the land, was thwarted only by a vicious undertow.

Rottingdean Beach

An undercliff path heads off to Brighton Marina, 3km away, and on a better day….

Rottingdean Undercliff Walk

The Grange

But it was not a better day so we headed inland. Rottingdean has more than just vernacular architecture, The Grange was built to replace the existing vicarage in the mid-1700s.

The Grange, Rottingdean

The Reverend Thomas Hooker lived here from 1792 to 1838. A popular and charismatic figure, he established the first village school and supported his parishioners in any way he could. Tea and brandy were highly taxed, and after a bad harvest the poor could make enough money to survive by smuggling these commodities into the country for the benefit if their richer neighbours. The Rev Hooker acted as an outrider for the local smuggling gang.

The Grange passed into private hands in the late 1800s, just as Rottingdean was becoming an artistic colony. In 1920 the owners employed Sir Edwyn Lutyens to enlarge and remodel the house, and Gertrude Jekyll to redesign the garden.

In 1992, a charity now called Rottingdean Heritage took over The Grange and maintain the building as a local museum. Unfortunately, the museum is closed on a Tuesday, but I am assured it is excellent on other days of the week.

St Margaret's Church

Built on the site of an earlier Saxon church, St Margaret’s dates from around 1400 with a heavy makeover by Sir George Gilbert Scott in 1856. Like many churches locally and elsewhere in south east England it is built of flint with a stone dressing.

St Margaret's Rottingdean

The church is not particularly memorable, inside or out….

St Margaret's Interior

… except for the stained-glass windows designed by Edward Burne-Jones and built by William Morris. 

William Morris/Edward Burne-Jones stained glass

Burne-Jones was among the first artists to move to Rottingdean, and his ashes are interred in St Margaret’s cemetery, as are those of his wife Georgiana. Georgiana was one of the four remarkable Macdonald sisters; Alice was the mother of Rudyard Kipling, Agnes was a talented pianist and married Edward Poynter, later President of the Royal Academy, and Louisa was a writer and the mother of future prime minster Stanley Baldwin. What they could have achieved in their own right if women were less constrained can only be guessed at.

Peter, who has a wide musical taste and knowledge, was keen to tell us that Gary Moore is also buried here. Who he? I asked. Gary Moore (1953-2011) was an Irish blues/jazz/rock guitarist who might have achieved more success if he had decided which sort of music he wanted to play. He worked with Phil Lynott and was best known for repeatedly joining and then leaving Thin Lizzy.

Edward Burne-Jones and Rudyard Kipling

In 1880 Edward and Georgiana Burne-Jones brought Prospect House, the left-hand property of the trio below as a holiday home. Shortly afterwards they bought Aubrey Cottage, the middle dwelling, knocked the two together and renamed them North End House. They divided their time between Rottingdean and London until Burne-Jones died in 1898. Georgiana died in 1920, and in 1923 the new owners of North End House, Sir Roderick Jones and his wife, novelist Enid Bagnold, added Gothic Cottage on the right to the other two.

North End House, Rottingdean

They are now separate properties again with the former Gothic Cottage inappropriately named North End House.

In 1897, their nephew, Rudyard Kipling moved to Rottingdean and rented The Elms, a difficult house to photograph.

The Elms, Rottingdean

Kipling’s Garden is lovingly tended by volunteers...

Kipling's Garden, Rottingdean

… and is adjacent to Rottingdean Croquet club. I know of no other village with a croquet club.

Rottingdean Croquet Club

In 1902 the Kiplings moved to Batemans, some 30 miles away, where they spent the rest of their lives. Batemans features in East Sussex (2): Batemans, Firle Beacon and the Long Man of Wilmington.

Those who looked closely at the photos (i.e. almost nobody) might have noticed the walls in the churchyard, Kipling's Garden and several ordinary houses. Such walls are common in these parts but I have not seen anything quite like them elsewhere - perhaps they are unique to Sussex.

A closer look at a Sussex wall

The Devil’s Dyke

West Sussex

Mid Sussex District

Driving north and west around Brighton and Hove brought us to the Devil’s Dyke, just over the boundary into West Sussex. The South Downs are a range of low, rounded chalk hills stretching across East and West Sussex and into Hampshire. 1,627 km² (628 sq miles) of these hills were designated a National Park in 2010. Earlier national parks consisted of rugged terrain, but the South Downs are welcoming, well-mannered hillsides, as would be expected in the genteel south east of England.

The South Downs National Park with Brighton & Hove and the Devil's Dyke Marked
Map by Nilfanion using OS OpenData

The Devil’s Dyke Today

The road climbs onto a scarp, not quite at the southern edge of the downs. There was drizzle in the air and a cold blustery wind, so we moved swiftly from car to pub (the Devil’s Dyke, obviously) where a light lunch seemed appropriate.

Then we had to face the rigours of sight-seeing. Looking down the scarp, there should be (I think) a view all the way to the sea, but not today.

Looking towards the sea, though visibility was limited

The Devil’s Dyke itself is a steep sided dry valley on the other side of the scarp. It may not be the Grand Canyon, but it is a fair sized hole.

The Devil's Dyke

Given that the surrounding hills are not of great height and scarps are only of moderate steepness what happened here? The official answer is that it dates from the end of the last ice age, but was created by meltwater running over saturated chalk rather than carved by ice. The thaw-freeze cycle as the world began to warm reduced the chalk to mush and the meltwater swept it away. That sounds convincing, but the whole of the South Downs is made of chalk, if it happened here, why did it not happen everywhere and level the hills?

The Devil’s Dyke 120 Years Ago

Big game hunter and traveller H.J. Hubbard bought the Dyke Estate in 1892. The London, Brighton and South Coast Railway had built a branch line from Hove to the foot of the scarp in 1887, so he decided to turn Devil’s Dyke into what may have been the world’s first theme park.

He built a camera obscura, fairground rides, an observatory, two bandstands and more. The venture was phenomenally successful and on August Bank Holiday 1893, 30,000 people visited the Dyke.

In 1894 Hubbard opened the country’s first cable car to allow visitors to swing from one side of the dyke to the other 200ft above the valley floor. Three years later he added a funicular railway down into the dyke.

Funicular Railway, Devil's Dyke (Public Domain)

Success is ever ephemeral. In 1909 both the cable car and funicular railway ceased operation. Now there are just concrete footings to be seen and the remains of some of the amusements

Some of Hubbard's remains

The Devil’s Dyke Folk Lore

As I do not fully understand the geological creation of the dyke (my fault, not doubt), here is an alternative story. In the late 7th century, long after Rota had become established in his dean, the Kingdom of Sussex converted to Christianity. Being the last of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms to convert, it caused the Devil much heartache. He decided to dig a channel from the sea to the heart of Sussex and drown its inhabitants.

Seeing the Devil making steady progress with his scheme, the holy hermit Cuthman of Steyning approached the Devil with a wager. If the Devil could complete his channel in one night, he could have Cuthman’s soul, if not he would go away and leave Sussex in peace.

St Cuthman of Steyning, by Penny Reeve (2000)
Photo:NeddySeagoon, used under Creative Commons

The Devil set to with a will, his mighty spade throwing up the surrounding hills, Chanctonbury Ring, Firle Beacon (see East Sussex (2)) and more while one spectacular heave sent the land that is now the Isle of Wight spinning into the sea. Cuthman bided his time. At midnight he lit a candle and placed it in his window, thus persuading the local cockerels that dawn had arrived. They started crowing, and the Devil, thinking he had lost his wager, threw down his shovel and stalked off for a massive sulk.

That is not very convincing, I struggle to believe the Devil was that easy to fool. If you click on Kanyakumari, my post about the southernmost town of India, you will find the story of Shiva being tricked out of marriage by the same device. Folk tales have a charming naivety, but finding very similar stories from so far apart, maybe tells us something about human nature.

Two humps in the bottom of the valley are said to be the graves of the Devil and his wife (who knew he was married?) Encouraging as it might be to know that the Devil is dead, the bad news is that he would be brought to life should anyone run backward five times round the humps while holding their breath. I don’t think I’ll fret about it.

That was enough sight-seeing in this weather; we got into a nice warm car, and Peter drove us back to Heathfield.

East Sussex

Part 1:Bodiam and Rye (2020)
Part 2:Bateman's, Firle Beacon and the Long Man of Wilmington (2021)
Part 3: Battle and Hastings (2021)
Part 4: Rottingdean and The Devil's Dyke
Part 5: Lewes and Charleston (coming soon)

Cannock Chase: Shifting Tectonic Plates. The (N + 12)th Annual Fish and Chip Walk

Unwelcome Developments and an Extremely Damp Walk on Cannock Chase

Staffordshire

Nothing in the title should be taken to suggest that the island of Great Britain in general, or Cannock Chase in particular, has abandoned its customary geological stability, this is not Iceland. But there are things in life we treat as permanent, though we know they are not. When change comes, the consequences are not entirely unearthquakelike. (That tortured sentence reminds me of a sign I saw in a North Macedonian hotel: ‘Do not use the lift in case of earthquakeake or fire.’)

Rifle Range Corner to the Sherbrook Valley

We set off a little later than our 9.30 target from Rifle Range Corner. The Corner, a sharp turn on minor road from the A34 to Rugeley, has often featured in these walks, but we have never started here before – a ripple from the edge of a shifting plate.

We walked towards the remains of the WW1 army rifle range, which gave the corner its name, then turned left and right.

Alison (half hidden) and Anne at the front (and they need to turn left, now), Brian and Lee, Mike, I am just behind with the camera

Unlike every other Fish and Chip Walk – on this blog since 2010, but older than that – Francis was not out in front. Indeed, Francis was not there at all.

I read through the (N + 11)th walk in 2021 before starting this. There were clues in the report, though I missed them at the time. Francis was a meticulous planner. The South West Odyssey, a 12-year walk in 36 sections from the Cardingmill Valley in Shropshire to Start Bay in Devon was his idea, he chose the routes, booked the B&Bs and led the way metaphorically and very often literally. He was the navigator who (almost) never made a mistake. But (N + 11) was not like that, he appeared to have no plan, his confident decision making had gone, the route became a ramble and we finished too early for lunch.

(N + 12) had started in the dry, but it would rain on and off for the whole day…

Anne's rictus grin says that she WILL enjoy this, Alison T looks like she wishes she was somewhere else

….and found our way to a path named as Marquis Drive on the map, though it is separated from the better-known section we would meet later.

Brian and Lee on a section of Marquis drive

By June 2022, the signs I missed had become obvious symptoms. The man who thought 20km a day was lazy, ground to a halt after 2 with a loss of balance and muscular co-ordination. Francis said he had ‘recently gone downhill very quickly’ but was putting a lot of faith into a series of physiotherapist appointments. It was obvious, though, that physiotherapy was not the answer, I could see clear similarities between Francis and the problems of Lynne’s late father.

Our path took us to the eastern edge of the Sherbrook Valley.

Looking down into the Sherbrook Valley

It then starts to descend gently, along the ridge…

Along the edge of the Sherbrook Valley

…but takes its time about it, eventually reached the brook a little upstream of the stepping stones. Lee was responsible for working out the route, and had built in optional short cuts to ensure we arrived for lunch on time. We took a zig-zag down the valley side..

This could be a zig..... or maybe a zag

… and crossed the stream at the bottom.

Across the Sherbrook. Anne is still smiling - and that is the nearest to a smile that Brian gets

Up the Sherbrook Valley

There was no Fish and Chip Walk in 2022, Francis was in no position to organise one. The tectonic plates had twitched and they would not twitch back, but it did not yet feel right for anyone else to step in. In spring 2023 he was able to travel to Australia to see his son, daughter-in-law and his three grandchildren, meeting the youngest for the very first time. Good as this was, his problems were not going away.

We walked upstream on the western bank…

Walking almost beside the Sherbrook

…which at one point takes a loop away from the brook. I thought it might make a pleasing photo.

Winter trees - the picture was a disappointment, definitely not worth getting left behind for

When you are at the back and pause to take a picture, everyone walks off and leaves you behind. I caught up, but was glad we soon stopped for coffee.

Now I have to catch up

We drank our coffee sitting in a concrete trough built across the brook years ago for a purpose no longer obvious. I was too interested in a sit and a restorative beverage to bother taking a photo, but we used the same spot in 2020.

Coffee in 2020, Sherbrook Valley

This was the year of Covid, social distancing (almost complied with), Boris’ ‘rule of 6’ – not that he bothered much – and Tier 3 restrictions. There were many people on the Chase in 2020, it was a dry, mild, Saturday and there was nowhere else to go. On a wet Tuesday in 2023, we had the place to ourselves.

I usually start these accounts with a group photo. With startling originality, the first photo in this report consists of five rear views. Fortunately, at this point Anne took a group selfie.

Anne's group selfie (thank you, Anne), l to r Anne, Alison T, Mike, Brian, Lee, Me (did I spill my coffee or is that rain?)

Sherbrook Valley to Slitting Mill

Alison C, Francis’ ex-wife (and until recent problems, walking companion.) took on responsibilities she need not have accepted (though knowing Alison, that was no surprise). She organised his medical appointments and after tests and consultations Francis, like my father-in-law, had a diagnosis of vascular dementia. Alison does not live particularly close, but in collaboration with their son in Australia and daughter in Oxfordshire, she saw to it that he received the help he required..

Time was short, so the coffee break was shorter. I have few photos of the next section, it was raining and my camera was wet and threatening to seize up so I left it in the dry for a while.

After a further kilometre beside the brook, we turned uphill on a path that would have returned us to our starting point had we not veered right on unmarked paths. Lee chose a deer track which petered out in long, wet grass, those further behind gained from his experience.

We crossed the minor road a little south of Rifle Range Corner, found our way to Flint’s Corner and then down a familiar section of Marquis Drive. Approaching the visitor centre, Marquis Drive is tarmacked, but later becomes a foot path descending to the A460 Rugeley to Hednesford road.(N + 8) went that way in 2018, but this year we turned left a kilometre above the road.

Just turned off Marquis Drive

The path descended through damp and desolate countryside.

a wet and miserable place

It cheered up when we reached some trees, then after turning right by open fields and passing a stable, we reached the road to Slitting Mill. Rather than walk with the traffic, we took a familiar detour along a stream behind a row of houses. At the end house someone is always slouched on a chair beside the stream, but I have not seen before in his work clothes.

Is this where the real one lives? He might not be a North Pole resident after all

The stream is higher than the path which is higher than the field. I assume this unnatural arrangement is connected to the provision of water power to the slitting mills that gave the village its name.

Stream (to the left) higher than path, higher than the field

Further along Mike took the path off to the left which climbs to a dam below a pool now used by anglers. I remember trying that some years ago, but there was no way through, so I went the long way, expecting Mike to catch me up after his detour. I was wrong, there is a short cut.

Slitting Mill and the Horns

Alison was looking after Francis from a distance, but others rallied round. Lee, a near neighbour, heroically mowed Francis’ lawn all summer and did other odd jobs, Mike gave lifts and sorted computer problems and we all met up with Francis for short walks on the Chase preceded by coffee or followed by lunch. When this became difficult, we took to meeting up at Francis’ local coffee shop. Some months ago, in consultation with his family, Francis decided to move to sheltered accommodation nearer to his daughter. This will probably happen early in the new year.

A slitting mill was a watermill that slit iron bars into rods as part of the nail making process. The first slitting mill was built here in 1611 and was followed by several others. The mills are long gone, but the village has appropriated their name. Slitting Mill today has 250 inhabitants and looks a pleasant place to live.

We have visited The Horns on several walks, but this is the first time it has featured in the Fish and Chip Walk. For the meal – fish and chips of course - the walkers were joined by Lynne, Hilary and, most importantly by Francis.

Lunch at The Horns, Slitting Mill
Left front to back, Lee, Brian, Francis, Mike, Alison T. Right f to b Hilary, Me, Lynne, Anne

The Horns did us proud, serving up nine portions in no time, the batter was crisp, the fish fresh and the smaller ‘lunchtime’ portion was more than ample.

Back to Rifle Range Corner

During our coffee shop gatherings there was talk of the Chip Walk, but nothing was done. Chatting with Lee after the last get-together we agreed action was urgently needed. I volunteered to organise the social side, fixing a date, booking a meal and so on, and Lee took on responsibility for designing a route. And so, this walk has come to pass. Lynne and I also invited Brian and Hilary to stay so Brian could take part. He was one of the original Chip Walkers until moving to Torquay in 2015, and walked the whole of the South West Odyssey, which by a convenient coincidence moved closer and closer to his new home with each passing year. I saw the walk as being a tribute to all Francis has done over the years, and the lunch as a farewell. It would have been incomplete without Brian.

It had been a long morning, almost 13km, and a longish lunch. The afternoon walk would be short because Lee needed to be home to do some tutoring and because there was little daylight left and, most importantly, because we wanted it to be. ‘Just 3km to make the 10 miles’ he said, mixing units with uniquely British flair.

We retraced our steps, crossing the bridge whose existence I had earlier doubted,...

Bridge over the Slitting Mill waterfall

...walking along the back of the houses, past Santa onto the road. Then, up the lane to the stables and back into the woods. To make our return journey as direct as possible we then turned right, crossed Stony Brook stepping stones…

Mike crosses the Stony Brook stepping stones

…and swung left past the Fairoak Pools.

The final Fairoak Pool

After the last pool there is a steepish climb up to Fairoak Lodge, it was the only real climb of the day, though the camera flattens it out (well, that is my excuse, anyway).

Up to Fairoak Lodge - steeper than it looks

As I laboured upwards, I saw Lee looking at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to run off,’ he said as I arrived. He left, as did Anne, the only person – in the absence of Francis – capable of keeping up with him.

It was not a long walk from there to the (unsurprisingly) deserted Tackeroo campsite and then down broad avenues back to the start. We reached the end at 4 o’clock, sunset had been 3.55, so we just had enough light to find the cars. According to Brian’s ap we had walked 10.54 miles in 4¼ hours, sticking to a steady 24mins per mile throughout.

Nearly there, though the sun is setting

I was exhausted, but it had been a good day, the Chip Walk Tradition had been upheld in robust fashion. It was also a sad day, Francis walked his last Chip Walk two years ago, though nobody realised it at the time. With his move this will probably be his last Chip Walk lunch, The tectonic plates have moved, the Walk is in new hands, though in my case not younger hands. It is up to Lee, Mike, Anne and me to ensure that new hands are safe hands.

Update: At the end of March 2024 Francis moved to sheltered accommodation in Didcot, near to his daughter, Heather. In June his son Matthew came from Australia on a long planned visit, bringing his two older daughters to see their grandparents. Some days after they left Francis suffered a heart attack and died peacefully in hospital on the 25th of June 2024 attended by Alison and Heather. A sad and rather premature end to a life well lived. Rest in peace, Francis.

See also Francis Crane MBE, January 2012

The Annual Fish and Chip Walks

The Nth: Cannock Chase in Snow and Ice (Dec 2010)
The (N + 1)th: Cannock Chase a Little Warmer (Dec 2011)
The (N + 2)th: Cannock Chase in Torrential Rain (Dec 2012)
The (N + 3)th: Cannock Chase in Winter Sunshine (Jan 2014)
The (N + 4)th: Cannock Chase Through Fresh Eyes (Dec 2014)
The (N + 5)th: Cannock Case, Dismal, Dismal, Dismal (Dec 2015)
The (N + 6)th: Cannock Chase Mild and Dry - So Much Better (Dec 2016)
The (N + 7)th: Cannock Chase, Venturing Further East (Jan 2018)
The (N + 8)th: Cannock Chase, Wind and Rain (Dec 2018)
The (N + 9)th: Cannock Chase, Freda's Grave at Last (Dec 2019)
The (N + 10)th: Cannock Chase in the Time of Covid (Dec 2020)
The (N + 11)th: Cannock Chase, Tussocks(Dec 2021)
Dec 2020 - no walk
The (N + 12)th: Cannock Chase, Shifting Tectonic Plates (Dec 2023)

London (1): Pictures and an Unusual Lunch

The National Portrait Gallery and Pick & Cheese

No Longer Neglecting London

I have been writing this blog since 2010 and have, so far, produced 548 posts covering 50 countries across four continents. Although I love foreign travel, I have not neglected home territory, 166 posts have a UK label, but until now, not one has involved the national capital.

London is 200km from home (as the crow flies), so much nearer and easier to get to than Shanghai or Mexico City, but they both have blogposts and Mexico City (Nov 2017) was some years after my nephew’s wedding, which occasioned my last London visit. I probably would not have gone now had not our daughter, Siân – who lives within the London commuter belt – suggested that Lynne and I join her for a jolly on her Wednesday day-off.

Nobody with an alternative would drive into London. Siân lives with her husband and two children in a village near Tring, so our journey started at Tring Station.

On Tring Station

Tring is a pleasant small town 50km north west of central London. It is undoubtedly the best English town named after a sound effect, less scary than Aaargh, livelier than Zzzzz and classier than Ding-a-ling (I blame Chuck Berry). It takes 40 minutes to reach London Euston where we dived into the underground and popped up a little later at Charing Cross.

City of Westminster

I like to head my posts with the flag or coat of arms of the place I am visiting, but Greater London, uniquely among England’s 48 Ceremonial Counties, has neither. However, each of its 32 boroughs has a Coat of Arms and we have just emerged in the City of Westminster - not just a borough but a city as well.

Greater London with the City of Westminster and Borough of Camden marked

Trafalgar Square

Charing Cross Station is by the bend in the river (by the 'r' of Westminster above). Also within the City of Westminster are the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, a couple of hundred metres upstream, and Buckingham Palace a similar distance west. They were not our targets for today, but the attractions of central London are closely packed, and just round the corner we found ourselves in Trafalgar Square, with Nelson’s Column straight in front of us.

Nelson's Column, Trafalgar Square in November sunshine

Sticking somebody on a column so high (52m) you can’t see them properly seems a strange way to celebrate their achievements, but building columns was popular in the 19th century.

The lions, designed by Sir Edwin (Monarch of the Glen) Landseer, guarding the bottom of the column are rather better.

One of the lions guarding the column (plus Siân and me)

I cannot remember when I lasted visited Trafalgar Square, but it was full of pigeons. There were once stalls selling pigeon food, but that was stopped in 2003 when Ken Livingstone also employed a hawk as a deterrent. There were undoubtedly too many, but are there now too few?

Disclaimer

The rest of this blog is about art or cheese. I have tried to ensure all facts are correct, but it would not be my blog if I did not occasionally offer my opinion. My qualifications for having opinions about art are zero. I do like looking at pictures, but any judgements I make, though thoughtfully considered, are dragged up from a deep well of ignorance.

I have no formal ‘cheese education’ either, but I have eaten a huge variety of cheeses from Oaxaca in the west to Yunnan Province in the east where the Yi ethnic minority make China’s one and only cheese - a hard goat’s milk cheese not unlike Ribblesdale. I must have learned something on the way

National Portrait Gallery

One side of Trafalgar Square is dominated by the vast bulk of the National Gallery, but we have all been there, Lynne and Siân quite recently, so we continued along Charing Cross Road to the back of the National Gallery where the National Portrait Gallery lurks like a poor relation. I am ashamed to say I had never been there before, but it is a fine place.

National Portrait Gallery

The Tudors

We started, almost by accident, among the Tudors. I love the painters' precision; they are almost photographic - though photographers are now rarely content with anything so literal. Many of the painters are unknown, indicating perhaps that they were thought of as craftsmen rather than artists. They had absorbed many of the technical advances of the Italian renaissance, but the cult of the artist was not yet so well established; it was the subject that brought prestige to the picture, not the painter.

Queen Elizabeth I

Many of them are familiar – they are the illustrations from school history books, and books all use the same pictures, because there are so few of them.

The portrait of William Shakespeare is by John Taylor (probably), and was painted from life (possibly). The less sophisticated likeness beside Shakespeare’s grave in Stratford was (probably) carved by Gerard Johnson who (perhaps) worked from a death mask.

William Shakespeare

There were some acknowledged artists, Hans Holbein the younger painted a portrait of Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII’s chancellor - until his execution - now in the Frick collection in New York. The National Portrait gallery has an ‘after Hans Holbein’ copy.

Thomas Cromwell

I was disappointed not to see Hilary Mantell peaking over his shoulder. How could she have understood Cromwell so well without time travelling to Tudor England?

These are the best likenesses of Tudor people that exist, though they are not as precise as, say, 19th century paintings of botanical samples. The sitters were clients, whatever the status of the painter, they held the purse strings, and so expected to be flattered. One might wonder how much, if anything, Hans Eworth was paid for this portrait of Mary Neville and her son Gregory Fiennes, the 10th Baron Dacre.

Mary Neville and he son Gregory Fiennes

The Rest

Later paintings that caught my eye include, Kitty Fisher (1741-67) by Nathaniel Hone 1765

Kitty Fisher was a courtesan, launched into high society as a teenager by a client, though which client is disputed. Famed for her beauty and wit, she had affairs with several wealthy men, and had her portrait painted by Joshua Reynolds (as well as the lesser-known Nathaniel Hone). We ‘met’ her at Croome Court where, aged 17, she became the mistress of the owner, Lord Coventry (aged 57). She enjoyed a spirited rivalry with Maria Gunning (Lady Coventry) whose career was not that different, but being the daughter of an impoverished aristocrat she had been able to marry her conquest. Both women died in their 20s, Maria Gunning poisoned by the arsenic in her makeup, Kitty Fisher from tuberculosis or smallpox – or maybe also of arsenic poisoning. Is this picture more than just a celebration of child abuse?

Kitty Fisher. He has caught some sort puckish vivacity
and I like the visual pun of the cat fishing in the right hand corner

Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802) after Joseph Wright of Derby 1770s

Doctor and polymath, Erasmus Darwin was a member of the Lunar Society of Birmingham, an informal dining club and learned society which met regularly from 1765 to 1813, sometimes in Darwin’s house in Lichfield (we visited 2017). His writings discussed the possibility of different animals evolving from common ancestors, an idea his grandson, Charles Darwin, would pick up and run with.

Erasmus Darwin

George Chinnery (1774-1852) self-portrait c1840.

Born in London, Chinnery left for Chennai in 1802 aged 28 and spent the remaining 50 years of his life in Asia, the last 27 in Macau. He painted portraits of the rich and powerful, both Asians and Europeans and as the only European painter resident in Southern China in the mid-early 19th century, his depictions of the life of ordinary people and the landscape of the Pearl River Delta are especially important. His paintings can be seen in the British Museum, the V&A and various galleries in the USA, Hong Kong and Macau. We first 'met' him in Macau, where he is among the more notable residents of the Old Protestant Cemetery.

George Chinnery

Siân takes a selfie with ‘her boys’ from ‘GCSE Lit context’.

Siân and a couple of her 'boys' (Locke, Hobbes and crew)

Marcus Rashford (b1997) photographed by Misan Harriman 2020

A couple of years ago, when footballer Marcus Rashford was one of my Christmas heroes, for his successful free school meals campaign, I had difficulty finding a photograph I was free to use, so here he is now.

Marcus Rashford

In Tudor times, images were rare and treated with reverence. Today they are cheap and easy to make – and everybody knows what the subject looks like anyway - so the photographer plays with us by hiding half of his subject’s face.

Seven Dials

Camden

From the gallery we took a short walk into the Borough of Camden and the interesting – and to me previously unknown - Seven Dials district. Seven narrow roads converge on a small square where an obelisk supports 6 (not 7!) sundials. Next to the theatre district, this was once the place theatregoers strayed if they wished to encounter a cutpurse (much more romantic than a ‘mugger’) or contract a sexually transmitted disease.

The sundial column was erected in 1684 but demolished in 1773 to "rid the area of undesirables." There is nothing new about tackling a problem from the wrong end!

I failed to take a photograph of the modern 7 Dials, so here is George Cruikshank's 1836 view

It was a place of appalling poverty where misery clings to misery for a little warmth, and want and disease lie down side-by-side, and groan together, as Keats cheerily put it.

Seven Dials was tarted up in the 1970s and became a conservation area, a new pillar being unveiled in 1993.

In one of the seven streets is Seven Dials market which describes itself as a chic multi-level food court with dozens of micro-restaurants & bars. Our destination was Pick & Cheese, which might indeed be a micro-restaurant.

Pick & Cheese

As my father discovered to his chagrin, our children are their own people, not clones of their parents. Armed with that knowledge I happily accept Siân’s interest in manga comics and Studio Ghibli films and her dismissal of competitive physical endeavour as ‘sportball.’ But it would be odd and dispiriting if we had nothing in common and cheese is one of our areas of mutual interest. We both enjoy cheese and like to seek out new and different examples – Siân refers to ‘curating a cheese board,’ and I now shamelessly borrow the expression as if it were my own. Ironically, my father would have enjoyed this experience, too, while my mother, who regarded all cheese with horror, would not have come through the door.

Pick & Cheese uses a conveyor belt like those more usually found in Japanese restaurants to serve up endless plates of British (and one Irish) artisan cheeses. Each has its accompaniment ranging from predictable (tomato chutney with Keens Cheddar) to ‘are they serious?’ (fudge with Cornish Gouda). The odd plate of charcuterie aside, that is all they serve. Siân had visited before with a ‘birthday voucher’ and thought that her parents would enjoy the experience.

Here comes the cheese, Pick & Cheese

The colour coded plates cost between £4 and £5.50 and you can quickly run up a sizeable bill. To avoid this, we had bought 'bottomless plates' giving unlimited access to the cheese for 1hr 15mins, they are not cheap, but we would have spent far more without them.

Lynne and Siân drank a glass of tawny port each while I enjoyed my Jurançon from the foothills of the Pyrenees. It is a sweet, golden wine focussed by a refreshing streak of acidity.

The Cheese

What follows is just a taste of the tasting. I have photographs and comments for every cheese I ate, but I realise not everyone is as invested in the Adoration of the Fromage as I am, so I will confine myself to five favourites. In no particular order they are:

Dazel Ash

One of two cheeses on the conveyor belt made by Chris and Clare Combes for Rosary Goat’s Cheeses on the edge of the New Forest in Hampshire. They use the milk from their own herd of British Saanen goats.

Dazel Ash with rosemary honey and shortbread

Dazel Ash is a goat log made from pasteurised milk and rolled in ash which matures into a crinkled edible rind. The slightest drizzle of rosemary honey brings the best out of this lovely soft cheese.

Truffled Baron Bigod

The five Barons Bigod (two Hughs and three Rogers) were Earls of Norfolk from 1095 to 1306. Their fiefdom included the land near Bungay where Jonny Crickmore’s Fen Farm now stands. He uses milk from his own Montbeliard herd to produce a cheese based on Brie-de-Meaux which he calls Baron Bigod (pronounced by-god). To produce Truffled Baron Bigod a thin layer of truffle-infused Fen Farm mascarpone is inserted. The cheeses mingle as the mature Bigod oozes, resulting in lingering flavours of warm earth, farmyard and mushrooms. This is as sumptuous as cheese gets.

Truffled Baron Bigod

Achari Spiced Salami

Taking a break from the cheese: 2011 Master Chef finalist Tom Whitaker and 2014 winner Dhruv Baker make artisan charcuterie at Weybridge in Surrey where they butcher, ferment, cure and age all their products.

Achari is spiced with fennel seeds, Tellicherry black pepper and fenugreek. Fine salami with the fennel’s gentle liquorice overlay proved an excellent refresher before more cheese.

Achari Spiced Salami

We passed through Tellicherry (or Thalasseri) while driving down the Malabar Coast in 2010. Pepper grows like a weed throughout Kerala and I was unaware that Tellicherry pepper was any different from the rest.

Spenwood

Spenwood is a hard sheep’s cheese inspired by Sardinian Pecorino. Anne Wigmore started Village Maid Cheeses in 1986 in Spencers Wood, near Reading and Spenwood was her first product.

Spenwood with mushroom duxelles

Like Pecorino Spenwood, is firm, nutty, sweet and salty. Lovely stuff.

Yarlington

Yarlington is a collaboration between King Stone Dairy in Chedwoth, Gloucestershire, and Yarlington Mill cider. During maturation the forming rind is periodically washed with cider.

Yarlington with candied peanuts

The better-known Stinking Bishop is made similarly, though using perry instead of cider. Yarlington may be less pungent, but it resembles the odorous prelate in its surprisingly well-mannered flavour. It is a fine cheese, though pairing it with candied peanuts seemed…well… odd.

At this stage Siân took a photograph. Apparently, Lynne thinks I have had enough cheese…

Someone thinks I've had enough

…but I was not finished yet....

Lincolnshire Red

Simon Jones started making Lincolnshire Poacher on the family dairy farm beside the Lincolnshire Wolds in the early 90s. Now working with his brother Tim and cheesemaker Richard Tagg, almost all the milk from their 230 Holstein Frisians is used for cheese.

Lincolnshire Red and chilli green

While most British artisan cheesemakers look towards France or Italy for inspiration (Lincolnshire Poacher owes something to Comté as well as Farmhouse Cheddar) Lincolnshire Red has a local inspiration being based on the traditional Red Leicester recipe. Matured for 6 months, Lincolnshire Red has a moist creamy texture, a delicate buttery flavour and a clean, lingering finish. It went well with the lower two thirds of the chilli, but no cheese on earth could have coped with fiery top third.

Cheesy Afterthoughts

There is a limit to how much cheese can be eaten at one sitting. I gave up after 45 mins of our allotted 75, Siân had also had enough by then, Lynne would have stopped earlier. Tasting this array of artisan cheeses was a wonderful experience, but despite the variety of styles, it is all cheese and after 45 minutes the palate tires.

There were 25 numbered plates on the menu (though I am unsure if all were available). One was a plate of pickles, three were charcuterie, the other 21 were cheeses. Of these 1 was Irish, the other 20 British - 12 from the south of England, 6 from the Midlands, 1 from the North and 1 from Wales which may show regional bias, or maybe it is just that London is in the south.

16 were made from cows’ milk, 3 from goats’, 1 from sheep and 1 cow/sheep combined. I imagine this roughly reflects the traditional British breakdown.

Factory cheesemakers use pasteurised milk, artisan cheesemakers have the freedom to use unpasteurised (raw) milk. I have eaten some excellent unpasteurised cheeses over the years and have come to assume the best always come from raw milk. That may not necessarily by true, 13 of these were made from pasteurised milk, 7 from raw and 1 used ‘thermised’ milk (pasteurised light). The debate is complicated and Formaggio Kitchen has an informative blog on this subject.

And so, we headed home, the rail links worked perfectly and Siân was in plenty for the necessary child collections.

Finally, a big ‘thank you’ to Siân for thinking up and organising this day out for us. I liked the art, even though I know little about it, and I loved the cheese. I also rather enjoyed being in London, perhaps we should go there again. I have called this post London (1), so maybe there will be a London (2).