Recollected after my return home.
1) Up early and back to my “old neighborhood” of Bloomsbury to catch a train from King’s Cross to my daytime destination, Hatfield House. I seem to remember a couple large school groups in the station, all in matching shirts, before my track was announced.
2) Now, why go to Hatfield? I had two reasons. First, this site was the home where Elizabeth I learned that she was queen on the death of her sister Mary; having seen Elizabeth R with Glenda Jackson at an impressionable age, of course I wanted to visit. Second, long ago back in May, on board the Queen Mary II, I had checked The Secret Royals: Spying and the Crown, from Victoria to Diana out of the ship’s library. Its introduction began with the Rainbow Portrait of Elizabeth I and how its symbolism related to espionage — and it was at Hatfield. And I had quite a hankerin’ to see it.
3) I stepped off the train into brilliant summer sunshine, made my way to the exit, and crossed the little highway. Unlike Knole, Hatfield is within walking distance of the train station. But not necessarily on sidewalks, and I spent about three minutes walking on the grassy margin of the highway, occasionally dodging overgrown limbs of plants. But it was less than ten minutes overall, and soon enough the nice man in the parking lot was directing me past what I later learned was the Old Palace to a little courtyard with shops and the café.
Definitely Not Period.
4) How astonishing, I was there before the house opened at 11:00 AM. So it was very convenient for me to have a cappuccino in the café, make a few notes in my notebook, and take my ease. And when I was done, I was able to present my ticket and walk at a stately pace to the entrance of the house, graced by a large fountain of two metal spirals that is Definitely Not Period.
5) You’d think there’d be a line of eager tourists waiting to stampede in, but nothing of the kind. I was one of less than ten people loitering in the shade on this very hot day. So when the door opened promptly at 11:00 AM, I was the first inside, and there was no one nipping at my heels.
There she is!
6) And there she was! After a few friendly words with the guide at the entrance, I turned into the Great Hall, and there was the Rainbow Portrait, with another guide stationed beside it. Is this not marvelous?!
The Rainbow Portrait. Note the gray rainbow, the eyes and ears, and the serpent.
6a) I had an engaged conversation with the guide, who (among other things) explained that yes, the pigments of the rainbow had indeed faded over time, leaving it a bit gray.
6b) In my excitement, I started channeling Flora Robson in Fire Over England, the guide joining in: “I may be a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and valor of a king, and of a king of England, too!” “And there,” said the guide pointing, “is a painting of the horse she was riding when she made that speech!”
6c) About a dozen more people had entered the Great Hall by this time — really, it wasn’t nearly so crowded as other places, which was so restful and lovely — and I was able to continue my tour up an elaborate staircase hung with paintings and tapestries into a series of drawing rooms and reception rooms, um, hung with paintings and tapestries. As I have pointed out so often during this trip, these people stole my life.
6d) But when everything is a best-of-its-kind masterpiece, well . . . in the words of my beloved Ellen Maury Slayden, “Who am I to cavil at the customs of the great?” Hatfield is nothing less than quietly magnificent, like a dark and rich dessert (fruitcake if you like fruitcake, not fruitcake if you’re like me) you want to savor as long as possible.
6e) An entire ceiling in gold leaf!
6f) Other points of interest in the house: a Chinese Bedroom, a small wall cabinet filled with rock crystal table accessories (one of the spoons was chipped, but the chip was hundreds of years old, '“so who cares, Edith?”), shallow bowls of ground lavender for potpourri, framed 20th-century photographs of the Royal Family, and masterful oil portraits of every era.
Would you just look at this?!
6g) The chapel included a wall of show-stopping stained glass that dates from 1610. I asked the guide if the chapel was used very much, and was told that the earl prays there every morning.
6h) Tourists were then directed down a flight of stairs through an old kitchen, filled with shelves of aggressively polished copper and hung with wonderful paintings that surely wouldn’t have been there when it was in active use. I have never seen so many tea kettles in one place, not even in retail.
6h.i) This room also doubled as a shop, but thankfully I was able to resist.
A beautiful garden behind the Old Palace.
7) This room was also the exit from the house; I had entered at the center of the front façade, and now came out at the far right. How convenient, it was right by the garden — or a garden, I should say, as beautiful landscaped spaces seemed to stretch out for acres and acres. And the bonus for me: I was quite alone for most of my garden ramble, possibly due to the heat of the day, palpably parching everything. I wandered slowly, not needing to rush for any reason, enjoying everything and remembering Louisiana summers of the 1970s when the sun was hot in the same way and the grass as gold.
7a) Near the end of my garden ramble I found a long garden room with high hedges on either side. At one end (furthest from the house), a large bust of Elizabeth I; at the other, a semicircular stone bench. By the time I reached the bench at my deliberately slow pace, I could hear the voices of other tourists. It was time to think about lunch.
7a.i) To the left of that stone bench I spotted a robotic lawnmower, which made me laugh to remember them in action at the Upper Belvedere in Vienna.
8) It was about 1:00 PM when I returned to the café, which felt high energy. Standing behind a family of three, and with a couple other people behind me, all of us waiting to be seated, I felt there was nowhere I could stand and not be in the way. The host directed me to take a seat at a community table, which I was happy to do, and he ended up waiting on me as well — a handsome young man with that classic blond English peaches-and-cream look and wide-set grey eyes. How he managed to be in three places at once I do not know, but I witnessed it happen, so I know it’s possible.
Hatfield House from the rear.
8a) I knew this was the first time in a couple weeks that Hatfield House was open to the public; I gather the café was closed during that time, too, and everyone was feeling the jolt of getting back into routine. I still had a very nice simple lunch.
9) And then it was time to walk back to the train station to make an earlier train. There was quite an enthusiastic crowd of People Younger Than I on the platform, all eager for the London train. It felt good.
Elizabeth I in the garden.
10) But when we got back to King’s Cross, for some reason the Underground stations there were closed. Along with hundreds of others, I had to walk a couple blocks to Euston Station. I felt grateful that I already knew the neighborhood and didn’t have to think too hard about Plan B.
11) After a NAP, I dressed for my evening plans in white linen trousers and a shirt patterned with vines. Why was that pattern important? Because I had been invited to a Feast of Bacchus (!) in Brighton (!), and that vine-patterned shirt was the closest thing I had in my travel wardrobe to anything Bacchic.
11a) Now, you are probably asking “Robert, what on earth are you doing taking the train all the way to Brighton on a Saturday night just for dinner?!” Well yes, it was madcap, but a) I am not getting any younger, and b) it was at the invitation of an Instagram celebrity I follow, Zack Pinsent, Regency Tailor. So how could I refuse?
11b) I had been aware of Zack and his work for quite a while. Long ago in 2018, when I was still in the office, several colleagues started forwarding me clips from a BBC feature about him. When I joined Instagram in 2020, I started following his account there, where he’s most active on social media. And on my trip to the coronation in 2023, I was astonished to encounter him live and in person at the Queen’s Gallery when I went to see the exhibition Dressing the Georgians. He was very gracious (I was far from the only fan he spoke to that day), and so was his father, who took the photo above left. So I had actually met him before he suggested I might want to join this party.
12) The train to Brighton felt barely occupied. After my Wednesday visit to the Royal Pavilion, I knew exactly where to go to get to the dinner at the Old Ship: straight down Queen Street to the waterfront, and take a left. This Saturday evening Queen Street was bustling with revelers, both locals and tourists, and I wove my way fairly skillfully.
13) The front desk directed me to the bar rather than the wine cellar — “they’re meeting there first” — and while I did spot a small clump of folks in Regency attire, I didn’t see Zack, who was really my only connection to this group of people who a) weren’t expecting me, b) all knew each other already, and c) appeared about half my age. It is no small thing to commit to a dinner party where you only know the host; there was a time in my life when that would have kept me from going at all, so I give myself credit for moving outside my comfort zone.
13a) But since I felt too shy to introduce myself, I ordered a gin and tonic and found a table. I lingered awhile, ears bleeding from the DJ blasting 1980s disco on the small terrace outside, watching groups going back and forth and calling to each other. There was one man in a nurse’s uniform for some reason, and I saw a bachelorette party with pink Statue of Liberty tiaras. At one point someone rushed in from the front desk; shortly thereafter, the DJ announced she was shutting down for the night, probably in response to a complaint from nearby residents.
14) At 7:45 I got the front desk to direct me to the wine cellar, which was a little confusing because it was down an unmarked service staircase. And through a low narrow corridor I saw a very small candlelit room full of people in costumes drinking — and Zack behind the bar with a cluster of grapes over each ear, eagerly serving a special Regency-era punch to everyone. He was happy to see me, and we had some good chatter while he continued serving his guests and introducing me. And that punch was fantastic; I must get the recipe.
14a) Before very long he announced dinner, for which seating would be determined by drawing a number out of a velvet bag. This was enormously clever, as it kept pre-determined groups from sitting together and conversation more general. We all drew our numbers and filed down the corridor to another wine cellar, just as old and narrow, to a long table for 24 set with candelabra and metal goblets. (I wish my photos had come out.) I was in roughly the center of the table on one side between a gentleman from San Francisco who was a friend of the lady sitting on my right, who I vaguely recall was a graduate of Penn.
14b) These wine cellars were quite old and atmospheric, and Zack enhanced this with generous use of candlelight. The Scarlet Pimpernel could easily have smuggled a few French aristocrats through here back in the day. The low barrel-vaulted ceiling meant that the staff had to stoop a bit to get around, but the dinner was excellent.
14c) Zack presided over the whole affair from a carved wooden seat at the head of the table, in jovial mood directing us all to propose toasts one after the other. Mine, of course, was my all-purpose “Confusion to the enemies of the Republic!” (On reflection two weeks later, I have to wonder if I couldn’t have followed the example of the Earl of Lowther, “the Yellow Earl:”
“The time for the ladies to withdraw from the dining-room was signalled by a time-honoured ceremony between Hugh and Grace [his wife]. Catching her eye he would raise his glass and say, ‘Mrs. Tommy! The King, Foxhunting and the Ladies!’ To which she, with equal gravity, would reply, ‘Mr. Tommy! The King, Foxhunting and the Gentlemen!’”
14d) There were other games also, and the conversation around and across the table kept lively throughout the evening. But because I am who I am — which is to say petrified of being late — I noted the passage of time getting closer and closer to 11:23, the time of my train’s departure for London. Finally at 11:05 I made my thanks and apologies and bolted for the exit; as it happened I wasn’t the first to depart.
15) I sped on foot through the even fuller streets and made it to the train station in 12 minutes, huffing and puffing. Almost as soon as I left the hotel someone tried to stop me with a question — “Sir, may I ask you . . .” but that is how cutpurses operate, and I waved him off. And wouldn’t you know it, my train’s departure was postponed by about 15 minutes. And I also boarded the wrong train, but got it sorted out just in time.
16) In contrast to my near-empty train down, the train back to London was packed with late-night partiers all eager to have a ball, some of them singing with gusto. And when we finally did get back to London (I can no longer remember which station), the Underground was locked up tight. After some wandering, I found a taxi near or on Fleet Street to get me back to Kensington. I think I got into bed just after 2:00 AM.
17) And you know what? The whole adventure made me feel 35 again! It was thrilling, and I’m glad I moved outside my comfort zone for what the late Noel Coward would have called “a marvelous party.”
