Lavender's Blue: Wherever there's design there's Lavender's Blue

Know Your Stuff

March 2016. Getting stuffed. Maundy Thursday, quail’s eggs on a watercress stuffing nest at Mayfair regular Hush. Resurrection Sunday, fried duck eggs at Holborn favourite The Delaunay. And so a procession of lunisolar led lunches, moveable feasts, begins. An extended Easter Triduum. When a man is tired of London, there’s always Edinburgh. Easter Wednesday, squared hen’s eggs on board Virgin. York, Durham, Newcastle, Berwick-upon-Tweed … everywhere looks better when viewed from the 1st Class carriage. Rows of distant gambrel roofs punctuated by chamfered dormers announce to the visually aware the proximity of the Border.

“Oh yes I stayed in The Witchery by the Castle years ago,” a brave journalist whispered to us during the recent Making Africa press briefing in the Guggenheim Bilbao. Admittedly an unlikely moment for such a muted conversation. It was undoubtedly a memorable stay. “I woke up in the middle of the night in the most frightful sweat! It was like the bed was on fire! I was boiling alive!” She got an uninvited roasting, so to speak. The next day at breakfast the journalist voiced her concern to a waitress. “That’ll be the witches,” came the nonchalant reply. “They used to burn them at the stake on Castlehill right outside.” Presumably it wasn’t the effects of a wee dram nightcap.

Our Easter Thursday lunch in the restaurant turns out to be slightly less steamy but still hot stuff. Dr Samuel Johnson and his biographer James Boswell used to eat here. Well if it’s good enough for Sam and Jamie, both made of stern stuff … The schlep up the Royal 1.6 Kilometres past winding wynds and claustrophobic closes to the foot of Castle Rock is so worth it. We’ve arrived. Physically and metaphorically. Bewitchingly charming certainly; hauntingly beautiful definitely; ghoul free hopefully. Think Hunderby (Julia Davis’s pricelessly hysterical period comedy) without Dorothy. Or Northanger Abbey’s Catherine goes to town.

Owner James Thomson, Scotland’s best (known) hotelier and restaurateur, is evidently a follower of the Donatella Versace school of thought: “Less isn’t more. Less is just less.” An eclectic dose of ecclesiastical remnants, Gothic salvage and Jacobean antiques is healthily apropos for this 16th century building. Candlesticks galore flicker flattering light across The Secret Garden, a space even with its panelled walls and trio of fanlighted French doors and timber beamed ceiling would still induce the envy of Frances Hodgson Burnett.

The interior may flurry with wild abandon but thankfully the service and place setting don’t. Our Milanese waiter makes sure of the former. Tradition takes care of the latter. Linen tablecloths, phew. China plates (slates are for roofs), double phew. Unheated pudding (always a dish best served cold), triple phew. After a bubbly reception, the feast unfolds. Palate seducing grilled sardines followed by lemon sole with brown shrimp butter preceding chocolate orange marquise with espresso jelly raise spirits further. The huggermugger harum scarum of a prowlish ghoulish night owlish postprandial prance on the mansard tiles of Edinburgh’s Auld Toun awaits. The only way is down (hill).

November 2025. Still not sweating the small stuff. Random Friday, sôle poêlée aux graines de moutard in Mayfair’s La Petite Maison next to music producer Mark Ronson en famille. Remembrance Friday, baked Ragstone goat’s cheese gnocchi up the BT Tower in Soho. And so a procession of dinners towards the waxing crescent moon, moveable feasts, begins. An extended Advent. When a man isn’t tired of London but needs a weekend change of scenery, there’s always Edinburgh. Feast of Christ the King of the Universe Eve, double devilled hen’s egg on board LNER. Newark-on-Trent, Doncaster, Northallerton, Darlington … everywhere looks better when viewed from the 1st Class carriage. The snowcapped Cleveland Hills announce to the observant the proximity of the North York Moors.

Nine years ago the three course Table d’Hôte Lunch Menu at The Witchery was priced at £35. Today, we’re after the two course Light Lunch Menu, £34.50. Packed agenda: so little time, so many galleries. After a bubbly reception (déjà vu; déjà ivre; plus Bourgone Blanc Domaine Leflaive Burgundy 2017 – a good year), the feast unfolds. Appetite satisfying basket of bread rolls with smoked butter accompanying celeriac velouté then salmon, cod and smoked haddock fish pie. We’re stuffed. But as the great Scottish aristo actress Tilda Swindon (first seen in three dimensions dining at L’Ambroisie Paris; last seen in two dimensions in her ex partner John Byrne’s painting in the Edinburgh National Portrait Gallery) would say in her hushed dulcet tone, “This lunch is delicious!”

Our driver Eleftherios Galouzidis pulls up outside on Castlehill. The only way is downhill. We’re just in time for the brilliant recital of Moonlight Sonata by Candlelight in St Gile’s Cathedral. British impresario Ashley Fripp’s fingers dance across the grand piano. He opens with Johannes Brahms’ Intermezzo in A Major. “Next I will play a pair of Chopin Nocturnes – tone poems,” he states. “E Flat Major which was influenced by the Irish composer John Field followed by C Sharp Minor. The latter was fortunately discovered by one of Chopin’s students after he died.” There’s wild applause for Sergei Rachmanioff’s Prelude in D Sharp Minor, the Moscow Waltz. “And now for the one you’ve all been waiting for!” Ashley takes a bow after the dramatic third movement of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata climaxes to its conclusion. Nothing quite completes an evening of culture like prawn toast and chilli tofu at Jimmy’s Express Chinese Restaurant on South Bridge.

At last week’s St Martin in the Fields London Informal Eucharist the Right Reverend Oliva Graham preached, “Holy omnipresence is not a casual knowing. It is impartial and unconditional. We are called to live fully and love faithfully.” We’ll soon discover Chessel’s Court, a rare survival of 18th century tenements hidden behind Canongate on the slope from The Witchery by the Castle. The mansion blocks, to use a befitting but more southern term, were assertively restored in the 1960s. A heart shaped ivy enlivens the ground floor of one of the blocks. Always living more fully, loving more faithfully.

Trevor Newton + Dartmouth House Mayfair London

The First September

The new year really starts each autumn. As the first golden leaves fall, where is it possible to see The Wallace Collection, Sir John Soane’s Museum and a swathe of Parisian hôtels particuliers in one room? In the Long Drawing Room of Marchmain Dartmouth House, on the same street where Oscar Wilde once resided in Mayfair, but only if you’re on the exclusive invitation list to the EV (Evening View). This house beautiful is not open to the public. Interior Impressions, a major exhibition of drawings by Trevor Newton is presented and curated by Anne Varick Lauder. It’s the first monographic exhibition of the accomplished artist in eight years.

New York born London based Dr Lauder, who has held curatorial positions in the J Paul Getty Museum, the Louvre and the National Portrait Gallery, announces, “We are delighted to be in the Long Drawing Room for the Private View of new drawings by the English topographical artist Trevor Newton. All 60 new works are of grand or highly individual British and European interiors from Versailles to The Ritz, to the Charleston of the Bloomsbury Group and the intimate Georgian houses of Spitalfields. It is therefore appropriate that this invitation only exhibition should take place in one of the finest private interiors in Britain.” She adds, “Interiors within interiors!” A 21st century – and for real – Charles Ryder.

Trevor studied History of Art at Cambridge, later becoming the first full time teacher of the subject at Eton. A present of The Observer’s Book of Architecture for his eighth birthday spurred a lifelong interest in buildings and their interiors. Rather than pursuing modish photorealism, he sets out to capture impressions of a place, often adding whimsical details imagined or transposed from other sources. His atmospheric renderings experiment with the interplay of light and reflection. Dense layers of mixed media – body colour, pen and ink, wash, watercolour and wax resist crayon – evoke a captivating sense of the aesthetic and nostalgic. His framing portrays a theatrical awareness of view: how the onlooker visually enters the room. There’s an enigmatic absence of people yet signs of habitation: a glass here; a magazine there. Trevor says, “My drawings are attempts to convey the emotions generated by art and architecture.” Emotional revisits. Anne considers, “It’s like he redecorates on page.”

Fellow alumnus Stephen Fry recalls, “While many of his contemporaries at Cambridge were Footlighting or rowing, Trevor seemed to spend much of his time drawing and painting. His specialities then were lavish invitations for May Week parties, illustrated menus for Club and Society dinners, posters and programmes for plays and concerts, along with a highly individual line in architectural fantasy drawn for its own sake and for the amusement of his friends. He managed to combine the frivolous and the baroque in a curious and most engaging manner: Osbert Lancaster meets Tiepolo. Trevor is still drawing and painting as passionately as ever and though the content of his work may be more serious, in style and execution it still has all the youthful energy and verve which characterised it over 30 years ago.”

Dartmouth House is something of a hôtel particulier itself. A château-worthy marble staircase and 18th century French panelling in the reception rooms add to the cunning deceit that just beyond the Louis Quinze style courtyard surely lies the Champs-Élysées. The Franglais appearance isn’t coincidental. In 1890 architect William Allright of Turner Lord knocked together two Georgian townhouses for his client, Edward Baring (of the collapsible bank fame) later Lord Revelstoke, to create a setting for his collection of French furniture and objets d’art. Ornament is prime. Dartmouth House is now the HQ of the English Speaking Union. Except for tonight. When it’s utterly-utterly Great Art Central.

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