After the meeting I walked back to Archway and got on a 210 'bus to Highgate and along Hampstead Road, getting out at Kenwood House.
As I entered the grounds of the mansion the drab damp day was transformed, so that every element became refined by the exquisite Kenwood aura. The grey clouds arranged themselves into a subtle grisaille of silver, ash and slate. The fine rain fell as delicate precipitations that felt like a gentle cool anointing. The crushed gravel crunched satisfyingly underfoot. Damp vegetation, normally so uninspired, exuded an aromatic fresh scent. Among the camellias a precious first bud, blood-red, about to burst.
Entering the house, I had the place to myself apart from the volunteers (who seemed grateful to see someone new). Although I only wanted to see The Guitar Player, I wandered around the other rooms - upstairs Jacobean portraits, downstairs old masters, the Adam library with a pink ceiling. It all seemed completely different from my previous visit.
You would expect The Guitar Player to be in a room of its own, with two security guards either side. But it was just on a wall with lots of other art. Perhaps English Heritage has become blasé about Vermeers.
To get to the tea shop you had to go back out the front door and then right round the whole house, along the elegant terrace with its stupendous view, and down some steps to the old kitchen area. Tea in a pot, with a plate loaded with gooey raspberry meringue and a big slice of walnut cake. Yes, I know this was greedy.
As I entered the grounds of the mansion the drab damp day was transformed, so that every element became refined by the exquisite Kenwood aura. The grey clouds arranged themselves into a subtle grisaille of silver, ash and slate. The fine rain fell as delicate precipitations that felt like a gentle cool anointing. The crushed gravel crunched satisfyingly underfoot. Damp vegetation, normally so uninspired, exuded an aromatic fresh scent. Among the camellias a precious first bud, blood-red, about to burst.
Entering the house, I had the place to myself apart from the volunteers (who seemed grateful to see someone new). Although I only wanted to see The Guitar Player, I wandered around the other rooms - upstairs Jacobean portraits, downstairs old masters, the Adam library with a pink ceiling. It all seemed completely different from my previous visit.
You would expect The Guitar Player to be in a room of its own, with two security guards either side. But it was just on a wall with lots of other art. Perhaps English Heritage has become blasé about Vermeers.
To get to the tea shop you had to go back out the front door and then right round the whole house, along the elegant terrace with its stupendous view, and down some steps to the old kitchen area. Tea in a pot, with a plate loaded with gooey raspberry meringue and a big slice of walnut cake. Yes, I know this was greedy.












