The Rise of Skywalker hits all a long-time fan's sweet spots

This post is spoiler-free. I promise.

It is nearly impossible to explain the impact of the original Star Wars film to fans who weren't there from the beginning. Which, when it comes to the thousands flocking to see the end of the saga on its opening weekend, now means most of them.

I can still remember the details of that hot, humid summer night in July of 1977. The film had been out in St. Louis for about a month; a buzz had been building but it was far from epic. I'd wanted to see it earlier, but we'd gone on holiday to see family in LA right after school had broken up and I couldn't convince anyone to see it with me. So I'd been writhing in anticipation for a fortnight and must have been one of the few people in the universe who had read the book before seeing the film. Yes, some enterprising marketer had released a paperback version of the story into airports when the film launched.

My friends and I had talked our parents into driving us across town to one of the few cinemas that retained its original, full-size screen. In the late '70s the economy was bad, the film industry was in crisis and owners of grand old theatres were chopping their big auditoria and broad screens into an array of smaller screening rooms. The birth of the modern cineplex. But not, in 1977, at Creve Coeur cinema.

It's also worth remembering that at the time science fiction was out of fashion, and the TV shows where it made its only stand (reruns of Lost in Space or British import Space: 1999) had fairly dreadful special effects. Grand, orchestral film soundtracks had also been left behind in the '60s. Or at least they were certainly beyond the experience of the average 12-year-old. So when the lights went down and those mesmerising letters started receding in a way we'd never seen before to the fanfare of a grand overture, we were amazed. Then the first imperial cruiser slid into view ... and went on and on across that giant screen ... and we had to remind ourselves to breathe. We had never, quite literally, seen anything like that. And the same could be said for everything that followed in the next joyous two hours.

The first video recorder and player wouldn't be released in the USA for another two months, and it would be years before watching movies on demand at home became a part of our lives. We were used to films coming and going. They might reappear on television a few years later, or maybe get a cinema re-release every few years (which is how my generation saw all the Disney classics), but if you really loved a movie you needed to see it again and again before it disappeared. Which is why I saw the original Star Wars 10 more times before it left cinema screens. There was no hope of buying a copy of the film for years, but Topps issued photo cards with their bubble gum. I had every one, assembled in order in a sort of DIY comic book version of the film.

None of the films that followed had quite the same emotional impact. My fandom never grew to Comic Con or cosplay dimensions, though I did attend a friend's '70s themed hen party as Princess Leia because it's the only costume I could come up with from the whole decade that wasn't a fashion embarrassment. But the franchise probably represents one of the longest-running relationships in my life. Forty-two years is a long time to be emotionally involved in a place and a group of people.

So there was a lot riding on Episode 9, promised as the conclusion of George Lucas' epic vision of three linked trilogies telling a multi-generational story of ambition, love, fear and redemption. Director JJ Abrams has delivered everything that the 12-year-old me would have wanted. Critics have been more lukewarm but may be missing the point. Fans like me aren't judging this on its artistic merits, we're looking for closure. We want someone to wrap us up in a comforting blanket of fond childhood memories, give us a cup of cocoa and assure us that everything comes right in the end. 12-year-old me is very, very happy.

Every major plot line you want to be wrapped up is done so in a plot that zips along at a roaring pace and stretches credulity far less than some of the other films. There are no boring bits nor superfluous adventures to give minor characters plot lines. Kudos to the scriptwriters who started with excess Carrie Fisher footage and managed to build a believable ... indeed, critical ... role for her character without using CGI. Of course, it's not just Leia. Pretty much everyone who's ever mattered shows up in one way  or another. Superfans will be particularly delighted to see Denis Lawson's Wedge Antilles still piloting a fighter; by my count the only rebel pilot to survive since the days of the original Death Star.

There are visually arresting new locations to add to the trip down memory lane, including a Burning Man festival with aliens, the ruined Death Star lashed by vicious seas and a magnificently creepy Sith home world. Richard E. Grant joins the cast as a suitably dastardly inheritor of Peter Cushing's malevolence. The acting, particularly Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver's is-this-hate-or-love tension, is perhaps the best we've seen across the nine films, and the one-liners scattered throughout for comic relief are a joy.

We sat through all of the credits, listening to John Williams' now-classic music, wishing it weren't really over. I could have sat through the whole thing again. Immediately. Pretty much the way I felt on that hot, sticky night in 1977. I probably won't see The Rise of Skywalker another 10 times in the cinema, but there's no doubt I'll be buying it on release and watching it again many times in the future. There are times you just need to give in to your inner 12-year-old.

Food and wine cross the centuries to bring Pompeii to life

The word for a Roman dinner party is a convivium; literally "a being together". A word we've absorbed into English to characterise a good time. The Romans' predecessors in central Italy, the Etruscans, often chose to have themselves immortalised for eternity as they would have been in the middle of a jolly feast. Wine cup in hand and snacks at their elbows, their terracotta avatars recline atop their funerary urns while reminding us of the pleasures of life.  While many nationalities take their culinary traditions seriously, the Italians have a spiritual bond between food, drink, life and love that's been hard-wired into their culture from the beginning.

Oxford's Ashmolean Museum builds its current exhibition, Last Supper in Pompeii, on this simple truth. The result is a joyous romp through a laid-back, pleasure-seeking culture most of us would have been delighted to be a part of ... until one Mount Vesuvius decided to intervene.

Pompeii is familiar territory for many history lovers and always a popular draw. The British Museum's last major exhibition on the subject was just six years ago. (My review here.) But the food angle is an inspired one, bringing the people of Pompeii to life in a very relatable way while also opening the door to display a vast amount of art and artefacts. Pretty much everything in Pompeii seemed to lead back to a good party.

We're welcomed by a life-sized statue of Bacchus on loan from the Archeological Museum in Naples, source of many of the best items here. (This is a potent reminder of just how rich that museum is; both this show and the British Museum's current Troy exhibition are stuffed with loans from there, yet their core collection is so vast I doubt visitors in Naples would notice.) Bacchus holds a wine jug in his hand, grapes and vines weave through his tousled hair and his fit yet louche pose is imbued with a raw sexuality. The message is clear: these people liked a good time.

The early galleries explain the role of celebratory food and drink in Italian culture, then take a look at why Pompeii was such a special place. Anyone who's been on that stretch of the Italian coast knows that it's favoured with clement, sunny weather and generally mild, beautiful seas that yielded enormous catches for little work. The surrounding landscape is green and gentle, and the slopes beneath Vesuvius were almost obscenely fertile. Locals had no idea the reason was volcanic soil. One of the treasures of the show is a wall painting containing the only contemporary depiction of Vesuvius before it blew its top in 79 AD. It was a towering, quiet, wooded mountain. The Italians were familiar with volcanos, but nobody suspected one beneath the familiar peak.

Two impressive galleries at the heart of the exhibition set the story in the garden and dining room, often interchangeable for culinary good times and always at the heart of the ancient Roman household. Though small panels of fresco are on display throughout, here we have whole walls transported in their entirety to set the scene.

Videos on a continuous loop on other walls enhance the illusion. One is a particularly lifelike conjuring of one of Pompeii's most glamorous eating spaces, with dining couches set in a raised, highly-decorated apse through which a narrow water feature ran to join the pool in the garden you would have faced through the meal. Garden dining tables with water flowing through them still show up at Hampton Court or Chelsea most years, suggesting that Pompeiian designers knew what they were about.

The room beyond this is more practical, reflecting the kitchen itself. These were small spaces compared to the lavish dining areas they served, but the preserved foods and spices brought up in excavations and on display here attest to the Romans wide-ranging tastes. The exhibition ends with a section on Britannia, where the objects aren't nearly as elegant but the message is clear. Out here in the hinterlands people were doing their best to copy the fine dining trends in the imperial capital, whether in tableware or cooking styles.

We end with a section on death, marking the abrupt end of Pompeii's party beneath Vesuvius' toxic gas and ash fall. Two of the most haunting treasures wait here, in suitably sombre lighting. The first is a magnificent bronze of the god Apollo, with his ivory and lapis eyes still intact and radiating life. He was probably used to support a tray of drinks or canapés in a wealthy home, but here ... positioned at the end of a corridor of tomb monuments ... he seems to be welcoming you to the afterlife. Just beyond him is the Lady of Oplontis.

Anyone who's visited Pompeii will have seen, and probably been haunted by, the plaster casts of the victims of the disaster. These were made quite simply, by pouring plaster into cavities in the ash left when human (or animal) soft tissue had disintegrated. Finds are still happening but casting methods have moved on. This lady's final resting place was discovered in the late 1970s and she's cast in resin, which captures far more detail, from the treasure she'd wrapped her body around to the painful tension in her face and limbs. One hopes she enjoyed her life, because it was a horrible death.

But as thought provoking as these big pieces are, it's the smaller bits of normal life that will stick with you. The exhibition is stuffed with the kinds of everyday objects that wouldn't be out of place in our own kitchens, dining rooms and gardens. Many are humble, some are ridiculously grand ... almost all would have been objects of desire at their time of manufacture.

The paraphernalia for storing, decanting and serving wine could be a mini-exhibition on its own. There are delicate glass vases and drinking cups and silver vessels with extraordinary details like incised patterns, lions heads and frolicking animals. But the item I'd bring home with me was a silver strainer, used for separating sediment from the wine, punched with ornate patterns of geometric precision.

The cookware was equally fascinating, and surprising in just how familiar much of it seems. There's a barbecue grill you could put into service immediately, and a pan with six cups that looks precisely like the one I keep meaning to buy to produce Danish aebleskiver (apple donuts). The Romans, it's thought, used it to cook eggs or cakes. There are spice storage vessels, colanders, griddles and cooking pots that haven't changed their form in 2,000 years. Not everything is familiar to the modern eye, however. The Romans had a legendary fondness for dormice, which it turns out they raised for household consumption. You can see a purpose-made dormouse pot complete with a spiral of running paths moulded into the terracotta sides. Basically an early habitrail with a tasty snack as the final objective.

It's rare that an exhibition about the ancient world can bridge the centuries and bring people to life. Through a shared love of food and wine, this show does that with the flare of a Michelin starred restaurant. Get there in its final weeks if you can. (The show closes on 12 January.)

The Bridge's spectacle will delight most children, but true Narnians should beware

Film and theatre producers take on classic books at their peril. The challenge grows steeper if those books are associated with famous illustrations. Peter Jackson’s Middle Earth and the Harry Potter franchise are generally accepted as successful incarnations of their authors' original visions, but even they occasionally go off piste to frustrate the ardent fan.

I remember having a good giggle six years ago when my husband recoiled in horror at the inclusion of a new Elven character, and her far-fetched love story, in The Hobbit. I thought it was a well-judged addition, bringing more female interest into an almost exclusively male story. My husband wasn’t buying that argument.

Now it’s my turn to grumble as The Bridge Theatre brings The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe to life.

The Narnia books were the seminal stories of my childhood and from the age of eight I probably re-read them once a year. In adulthood the frequency dropped, but I doubt I’ve ever gone more than five years without revisiting the series. You might even suggest the books altered the course of my life, since that wardrobe first planted the idea in my head that the gateway to a better world sat in the English countryside. My obsession with England grew to something that eventually drew me here permanently. I’m not going to claim I can recite them by heart, but I know each of the seven Narnia tales exceptionally well and could probably dissect the mythological, literary and religious context in each off the top of my head.

Yes, I’m a Narnia geek. Which is why all of the things that weren’t right in The Bridge’s production got in the way of me really enjoying it.

There was the unnecessarily enhanced backstory. The idea that the children went to Professor Kirke’s by chance. The stripping away of the fancy accents, well-bred behaviour and proper syntax of 1940s English to give us democratised, seemingly modern kids. (The fact that the Pevensies came across as so posh and different from my own experience made it more credible to me they could step up to such grand adventures.) The lamp-post wasn’t right; it should be one armed thanks to an incident in The Magician’s Nephew. Father Christmas does not warn Susan and Lucy that their weapons are meant for self-defence and they are not to fight. He doesn’t give Susan her horn at all. (Thus eliminating the possibility of future stories, as that's what calls them back to Narnia for Prince Caspian.) Lucy and Susan's pacifist warning was clearly left out to create a more modern gender balance. It’s Lucy and not Peter who kills the evil wolf, Maugrim. (Thus eliminating the possibility of him receiving one of his titles, Sir Peter Wolfsbane.) And just to add to the modern twists, it’s Mrs. Beaver who ventures out to rescue the children initially while Mr. Beaver stays home cooking a vegan hotpot.

I could probably live with most of these, but had a harder time swallowing the pantomime elements. I should not have been surprised. It is, after all, the Christmas season. And while this Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe doesn’t approach full “he’s behind you” silliness, they’ve definitely souped the plot up with lashings of comedy plus several musical numbers to fight for parents' holiday theatre investment. That includes a clog-dancing Father Christmas and instrument-playing reindeer who lead the Narnians in a folk music jamboree. Quite a departure from the solemn scene in the book where the children are entrusted with the potent tools that, with their acceptance, start to transform them from human children into the kings and queens of Narnia.

Bottom line: I’ve always seen this as a very serious story, and the slapstick bits really bothered me.

 I am certainly in the minority, however, as the reviews have been uniformly strong. This show is meant for kids, after all, not 55-year-old Narnia pedants. The real gulf between me and the critics, however, goes back to the source material. Hip, "woke", New Age media types can't stand the traditional morality and overt Christianity of the books. The TimeOut reviewer's starting point ... CS Lewis’s ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’ – with its well-spoken child heroes, twee talking animals and heavy Christian vibes – can be left looking a bit old-fashioned ... is common amongst most media types and is, no doubt, what the modern production was trying to "fix".

If the list of variations from the book feels like unimportant minutiae, and you see no problem with the comedy injection, then you will probably enjoy the performance enormously. The youngsters in the audience seemed delighted. There's no denying that, artistically, it's gorgeous.

Bewitched Narnia ... where it's always winter but never Christmas ... comes to life as stately, white-clad dryads (tree spirits) stride in from the back of the auditorium with enormous trains flowing behind. These cross and spread over the stage to create a snowscape. The witch's sledge is a towering, ship-like prow or, when turned around, a menacing throne. There are strong elements of The Lion King, War Horse and the National Theatre's His Dark Materials here as puppetry and exotic head-dresses turn actors into the animals of Narnia. Perhaps a little too much of the last, as Wil Johnson's Aslan seems to be able to walk away from the exquisite carapace of the lion above him at will, as if they are man and daemon rather than one being. Without the lion head his costume was a bit too much music festival shaman for Lewis' incarnation of the Almighty Father. But Johnson's rich voice and compelling performance, with just the right mix of power, love and vulnerability, lets you forget he's less than leonine.

Given that the good animals of Narnia are so often played for laughs, its the bad guys who provide the most impressive visual drama. Laura Elphinstone delivers a malevolent, mercurial and icy cold Queen Jadis true to the power-hungry dictator of the books. The scene when she's sure she's won and levitates towards the roof to fill the world with her billowing, demon-drenched skirts, is magnificent. Omari Bernard's wolf Maugrim is suitably menacing and, other than Aslan, the only Narnian who actually comes across as an animal, rather than a human who's put on silly ears. The convocation of the dark beasts at the stone table and their cruel tormenting before Aslan's sacrifice is a potent reminder that these books have lasted so long because the simple stories sit atop deep, powerful themes.

Of the children, only John Leader's Edmund is truly memorable, though why he has a Midlands accent when his three siblings speak as Londoners is another of the show's weird discrepancies. (Maybe Edmund's surly chip on his shoulder is not because he always plays second to Peter, but because his parents fostered him to a family in Birmingham as an infant?) One of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe's key themes is the power of forgiveness, and the scene where Edmund returns to the fold ... Aslan having completely forgiven him, but Edmund needing to come to terms with his shame and disappointment in himself before he accepts the grace of a higher power ... is played on both sides with an emotional impact that will bring tears to your eyes.

Otherwise, the Pevensies are woefully under-realised. This is supposed to be a coming of age story for each of them, yet we see very little growth. There's lots of capering, giggling and running about ... the last in several numbers that feel like the choreography was cribbed from Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I can't tell whether it was the acting, the staging or the script, but these remained young adults playing at being children, who never really grew into their Narnian alter-egos. This is most obvious at the very end when they should be decades older, acting with the majesty of Medieval monarchs and unable to remember their Earthly origins. That's all part of what makes their departure from Narnia so wrenching. It's an accidental eviction from Eden.

It was always going to be hard to take them as the High Kings and Queens, of course, when they were crowned with jester's bobble hats by rainbow-clad millennials (almost all animal references had disappeared by now) who look like they're giving their Glastonbury costumes a trial run for next summer. The spectacle of giant flowers being passed over the audience is joyous, the dance number fun, but these capering festival goers are a long way from the Medieval utopia of Lewis' Narnia.

I appreciate that most people won't care about the deviations from the books, and may even find them to be improvements. But, ultimately, what I believe should matter to everyone is the lack of intellectual depth, and how derivative the production is. By turning it into a Christmas show, Sally Cookson has gutted a thoughtful, instructive classic that is many children's first introduction to deeper themes, and left behind only the entertainment. Her production is beautiful, but its creative ideas are lifted heavily from other big shows like Lion King and Cursed Child. Even her dance-party ending seems a repeat; we just did it in this same theatre six months ago for A Midsummer Night's Dream (where it worked much better).

London reviewers are heaping praise on Cookson, but for those two infractions this Narnian can't forgive her.

New Troy show celebrates foundations of Western storytelling

After a two-month Japanese hiatus, it was time to re-engage with Western civilisation. Troy seemed a good place to start.

The three epics that sprng from the fall of this legendary city ... The Iliad, The Odyssey and The Aeneid ... are arguably the foundations from which all the rest of Western literature springs. Every basic plot line that writers have been spinning and enhancing for 3,000 years starts here: star-crossed lovers; the toxicity of jealousy; duty vs. desire; dysfunctional families; the nature of friendship; the capriciousness of fate ... and so much more. This is the genesis of storytelling. (And pre-dates the official Book of Genesis by as much as 500 years.) Much of the time, artists and writers haven't even bothered to invent their own variations on the theme. They've simply re-told these great tales from Roman mosaics to medieval tapestries, Renaissance plays to modern film.

That's the lens through which the British Museum sees things in its new exhibition Troy: Myth and Reality. Blockbuster shows here usually assemble the cultural treasures of lost civilisations to allow us to imagine what they must have been like in their glory days. There is a bit of the real Troy here, but those humble artefacts can't compare to the art that's been created in celebration of what may (or may not) have happened there.

To remind you of the basics: three goddesses are debating their supremacy. They pick a human to arbitrate, Paris, Prince of Troy, and bribe him shamelessly. He falls for the offer of Aphrodite, goddess of love: the most beautiful woman in the world will be his. Problem is, she's married to King Meneleaus of Sparta. Paris and Helen run away to Troy. Meneleaus rallies his brother, King Agamemnon of Mycenae, and all the other Greeks, to sail to Troy to get Helen back. Many adventures and side-plots take place as they're gathering the troops.

When the Greeks get to Troy, they find the city too strong to take, so they start a siege that lasts 10 years. Many more adventures and side-plots ensue as they camp on the beach below town. Eventually, a series of tragedies leads to an epic battle between two of the greatest heroes of all time, Greece's Achilles and Troy's Hector. Achilles wins, but his brutal desecration of Hector's body pretty much ensures that he'll die soon after. Unable to break the siege, the Greeks finally win by treachery, pretending to give up and sailing away but leaving a wooden horse as an offering to the sea god Poseidon on the beach. The Trojans bring it inside. Greeks are hiding within. The city falls. Nobody ever trusts a Greek gift again. That gets us through The Illiad.

Then there are two sequels. The first, also by Homer, tells us about the journey home of Odysseus. He was the genius who came up with the horse idea, and was basically the tricksy strategist throughout Part 1. But he sucks at navigation.  He spends 10 years getting home, regularly frustrated by capricious gods who'd been on the Trojan side and want him to pay for his tricks. Even the most basic perusal of a map will suggest that a decade of travel time between Troy and Odysseus' kingdom of Ithaca is preposterous (you could drive it today in 14 hours). But Odysseus' adventures through the islands of the Aegean and Mediterranean are a ripping good yarn.

At the same time Odysseus is going through his travails, a Trojan prince by the name of Aeneas manages to escape the flaming ruins of his city. He also has a rip-roaring series of adventures, including making the queen of Carthage fall in love with him and throw herself on a bonfire when he leaves her. Because he's got better things to do. Namely, travelling up the Italian peninsula to become one of the founders of Rome. This is one of history's earliest examples of PR spin, as author Virgil whipped up this fantasy 1,000 years after Homer's original epic to give his scrappy upstart of a country a more noble backstory. It worked.

The first half of the exhibition tells these stories and some of their more popular spin-offs through the medium of classical art. The British Museum has been able to mine its own collections extensively. Greek vases that normally sit upstairs on shelves with scores of others are called out to individual glory here, their storytelling enhanced by projected text and images and, occasionally, a soundtrack. Early on, hearing the cadence of the lines in ancient Greek before they’re translated into English reminds you that these tales were poems created to be listened to, and translations never capture the music of the original. Sculpture, wall paintings from Pompeii, sarcophagi and other treasures augment the tale, sourced selectively from other museums.

My favourite piece was an enormous table base depicting Scylla and Charybdis (an episode from The Odyssey) on loan from Naples’ magnificent archaeological museum. The two writhing sea-monsters, each the size of a person, would have hoisted the table on their backs. The sculptor was clearly more interested in beauty than capturing the menace of the story, since both “monsters” are deeply attractive and the three-headed hound accompanying one ... who is supposed to be ripping drowning sailors to shreds ... looks like a drowsy spaniel gnawing on an after-dinner bone.

Even before we leave the classical age, there are signs of the tale’s global traction. There’s a beautiful repousse silver cup with a scene from Achilles’ life, made by the Romans and unearthed in a Danish chieftain’s grave. (Proving that the Danes have always had cosmopolitan tastes.) More surprising is a scene showing the Trojan horse being brought into the city, localised for the Indian market. A Hindu goddess oversees proceedings.

The museum makes the most of its flexible, modern exhibition space with clever lighting and hanging partitions; views through gaps mean the sections bleed into each other more than usual, emphasising the eternal nature of the story. You may be looking at an Etruscan sarcophagus, but there’s a Rubens painting in your peripheral vision. A magnificent wooden cage evokes the famous horse, insubstantial enough that it’s actually more effective if you don’t look at it directly. As with the original poem, your imagination puts the finishing touch on the story.

The half-way point offers a brief sojourn in the real Troy, architecturally separated from the rest of the show in a pod as if to emphasise the gulf between epic and reality.  The curators are keen to point out the irony that while the stories never went out of circulation, the city itself was so thoroughly lost that many people believed it to be a myth. Turkish locals never really “lost” the place, of course, but it took a German to put it back on the global map.

This section introduces us to Heinrich Schliemann, whose obsession led to the first modern archeological dig on the site. His techniques were cavalier, he bent a lot of facts to fit his theories and he effectively looted all the good stuff he found to take back to Berlin. (In a karmic turn of fate, the Soviets took the treasures for themselves at the end of WWII so they now live in Moscow's Pushkin Museum.) But he was probably in the right place. In the 150 years since his time, more scientific excavations have discovered seven different levels of habitation over 1,000 years. The latest ones reveal a substantial walled city could fit the narrative, but there’s still no conclusive proof that Paris, Hector, Achilles and the gang were here.

It doesn’t really matter, of course. The story is more culturally significant than the truth.

The second half of the exhibition returns to the narrative of Troy as inspiration for art through the ages. There are magnificent Italian Renaissance wedding chests. A maquette of the stage design for Offenbach’s La Belle Helene.

Pathos-stirring Victorian sculpture. Copies of the jewellery Schliemann unearthed and, famously, had his wife photographed wearing. Presumably, the Pushkin wouldn't lend the originals for fear that the Germans would find a way to keep them once they were in the European Union.

And even a few masterpieces. The aforementioned Rubens is fine, but Cranach’s “Judgement of Paris”, on loan from the Queen, may be the most significant work of art here.

The show ends with two interpretations of The Shield of Achilles. The first is a Regency re-imagining of what it might have looked like in the grandest of traditions, based on Homer’s description. It’s glistening silver gilt. Apollo and his four-horse chariot emerge in high relief from the centre. Detailed figures in lower relief process around the rim. It weighs nearly 40 pounds. Impractical for any hero. The contemporary interpretation is an equally dazzling though entirely different take in multi-coloured neon.

Given that this show was more about the art of storytelling than the artefacts of a place, I would have liked a bit of literary analysis on why these epics are so enduring. Surely it’s more than just the plot lines. Could we talk about Homer’s use of language? The connection to the human psyche? (I dimly remember these being major points when I studied it in high school.) But these are small things and no doubt addressed in some of the museum's related special events.

Overall, this is a great show for anyone with any interest in the tales of ancient Troy, and would be a gift from heaven for students encountering it in their curriculum at the moment. Sure, you can screen the recent BBC version or roll the Brad Pitt film (the latter makes an appearance here) but the figures on the artwork in the exhibition display more drama and human emotion than most of the acting in either of those productions. And it’s all a great deal more fun than the very worthy production of Euripides’ Trojan Women I endured at age 16, which almost put me off the whole saga for life. After the British Museum exhibition, a new translation of Homer is on my Christmas list. I think it’s time to re-read the original binge-worthy epic.

Japan defies expectations until the end

Seven weeks ago, I set down my expectations as I flew to Japan. Within days, I realised many of them were wrong. Now, after three weeks of intensive tourism and another four spent writing about it, I see that part of the essential essence of Japan seems to be defying expectations. Whenever you think you have something figured out, you stumble on a contradiction that reveals your mistake.

Obviously, a three-week visit isn't enough to truly understand any destination. But I suspect a lifetime's observation would only emphasise the enigmatic variations of the Japanese and their country.

The surprises kept coming right up to our departure. After three weeks of witnessing transport efficiency that put our home infrastructure to shame, we'd come to expect it. We'd also grown comfortable with all announcements on trains being repeated in English.

The exception would seem to be emergency situations, when the driver is explaining something live. Like why you're at a dead stop, in a part of the country hit hard by Typhoon Hagibis, while on the Narita Airport Express ... one of the places you'd most expect English ... watching the minutes until your flight departure tick away. There wasn't a Japanese native in our car, nor anyone who could understand the announcements. Nobody had seen notifications of delays when we boarded. We got moving again,  without too devastating of a delay, without anyone ever knowing what had happened. The relief was temporary, however, as we emerged into a tired terminal with outdated technology. We'd checked in online, but there was no simple bag drop. Everyone had to check in,again, the old-fashioned way, in queues eating up 40 minutes or more. There was none of the showy modern architecture or the technology we'd grown used to in the place we most expected it.

At least, we thought, we'll be able to grab some food on the way to the plane. We'd missed lunch, and my husband's tomato allergy makes airplane food tricky. (Tomato is not a recognised allergen, so you can't special order anything.) We didn't worry, however, as train stations had taught us that the Japanese are masters at delicious packaged food for travellers. Another expectation overturned. It seems that’s only in train stations. In Narita’s international terminal you either sit down, or buy sweets. (To my husband’s relief, our Iberia flight had tomato-free food.)

Looking back at those initial expectations, I got a few things right.

We did feel like Gulliver in Lilliput. While you might see a very tall or an overweight local on occasion, there’s a far greater uniformity in body type than we have at home, with most people staying trim and topping out at perhaps 5’7”. The photo I wish I could have snapped, but couldn’t get to a camera at the time, was looking across a crowded subway car in which we were the only Caucasians, to see my husband’s bald, pale head sticking above the horizon line of sleek black heads of hair at his shoulder.

I was disgusted by the ugly modernity of so many places, most notable in Tokyo. But I at least gained a greater understanding of why: disaster and war has swept away much of the old; the new is earthquake and typhoon proof. And like London, the worst of the post-war modernism is starting to be replaced with more elegant modern architecture.

I was indeed overwhelmed by temples, though I found more differentiation than I expected and have discovered a new love for Asian art. And yes, those toilets are as amazing as all the tourists before me have said. I’m researching options for having one installed at home.

I was only half-way correct on my expected highlights. Our ryokan experience, the Tokyo national museum and Kyoto were as glorious as I thought they would be. Himeji Castle, though impressive from the outside, was underwhelming because of its lack of interiors and paled in comparison to Kyoto’s Nijo Castle. My favourite sight of the whole trip, Ieyasu’s shrine at Nikko, had been an afterthought.

Ultimately, I got more of my expectations wrong than right.

I thought I’d be frustrated by the language barrier. It’s not a problem. English is the national default for anyone who doesn’t speak Japanese. Western characters appear on almost all directional signs and almost every restaurant has an English menu. All cultural sights we visited had English explanations. Sure, I would have liked more depth in places, but I’m guessing my questions would often have been too specific for locals to answer, even if we did speak the same language. (It will have to remain a mystery if there was ever any communication between the craftspeople at Nijo Castle and those at Brighton’s Royal Pavilion.)

As with any country, of course, getting a range of basic phrases down indicated our earnest appreciation of the country, even if we couldn’t communicate well.

I thought I’d be bothered by the seemingly juvenile culture of comic books and cosplay. In reality, it wasn’t nearly as visible as I thought it would be. The weirdness of London’s Hyper Japan show turned out to be a barely-noticeable sub-culture from the perspective of the main tourist routes. Outside of Disney, we really only saw it once. Our hotel, the Tokyo Hilton, hosted an “Alice in Wonderland” tea every afternoon. On Sundays it was thronged with young Japanese in full themed dress, though their Alice has a decidedly steam-punk element. Yes, this seemed weird.

As did girls in their late-20s wandering around an amusement park, arm-in-arm, dressed as their favourite Disney Princess. Upon reflection, however, I found it rather sweet. Girls in the West these days become sexualised so early. Even if they’re innocent waifs they still embrace looks that would have had them dismissed as streetwalkers in the ‘70s. It was rather nice to see young women happily embracing a sweeter, old-fashioned femininity.

I thought I’d marvel at Japanese design, particularly print. This was only true of the old stuff. Modern styles eschew elegant minimalism for the brash. Advertising and print materials throughout the country are eye-wateringly busy, cramming characters, colour, cartoon and photography into visual shouting. White space appears to be the enemy.

With three weeks at our disposal I’d planned this to be a holiday at a different, slower pace than our usual. But I woefully under-estimated the size of attractions ... temples, for example, often aren’t one building but a sprawling complex ... and the effort required to travel between points A and B. Journeys that look quick and direct often are not, exacerbated by the complicated sprawl of many stations. And we didn’t count on the steaming, energy-sapping humidity. I’d planned for laid-back R&R. I got one of the most physically challenging holidays I’ve taken in years.

Finally, as I wrote in my last story, I expected rugby to be incidental to my own experience. It was, instead, integral. The lure of future travel following the team is now strong, thanks to the delightful sense of fellowship that transforms the travel experience.

I’m quite sure about the rugby observation. I could be completely wrong about everything else.

I might have prepared with a year’s worth of reading about Japan, but this was just three weeks in an entirely new place. We can’t claim to have ever strayed off the beaten tourist tracks. That’s hardly the basis for truly understanding a country.

After my first trip to England in 1981, I came away believing everyone was scrupulously polite and well-educated, bonded to the countryside, comfortably affluent, deeply conscious of their own history and most likely to live in charming villages. I saw the tiny sub-culture that my interests and sightseeing choices led me to see.

My experience of Japan may turn out to be just as unrepresentative. One thing's for sure, however: I loved all.

Rugby put the icing on our Japanese cake

The 2019 Rugby World Cup was the catalyst for our Japan trip. We'd both been interested in visiting the country, but it was the convergence of my husband's favourite sport and England's chances of doing well that encouraged us to make the commitment.

Other than the three games that came as part of our package, I didn't think rugby would have that much of an influence on the trip. I was wrong. The tournament created a remarkable sense of fellowship with other travellers. Even under normal circumstances, I'd guess that you're more likely to strike up conversations with strangers in a place this foreign when you hear a familiar accent. But the minute you discovered someone was here for the rugby, the reserve fell. "I may not know you," you could almost hear the other person thinking, "but if you like rugby enough to travel all this way to see it, you're like me." Rugby fans are a convivial bunch, fond of good food and good drink, with a code of honour that respects other teams' fans as much as your own. It's a good recipe for social success.

Conversations were easy: everyone was keen to talk about their team's chances, the games they'd been to, the sometimes crazy lengths they'd gone to to get here. And I do mean everyone. In three weeks we encountered perhaps six English-speaking fellow travelers who were not there for the rugby. The tournament had clearly hijacked all tourism during its run.

It captivated the Japanese as well.

Rugby is a niche sport in Japan. Though the Japanese team had had some notable successes before the tournament started ... most memorably a win over South Africa in the 2015 World Cup ... they weren't a top-ranked squad and most people in the country follow other sports. So visitors were surprised by how the locals threw themselves into the event. Japan emerging from the qualifying round undefeated no doubt helped; cherry blossoms rugby shirts were the must-have, and most difficult to find, item of sportswear in Japan. I wore mine sightseeing one day and couldn't get over how many Japanese people thanked me for my support. Walking by locals in their kit after Japanese games and congratulating them on their wins was a joyous experience. I've seldom seen human faces so overwhelmed with delight. The government had also stated its intent to make the World Cup a test run for next year's Olympics.

Local enthusiasm had started early. The British merchandise manager we spoke to in Tokyo's pop-up World Cup store explained that the uninspiring range of goods on display was largely because the locals had swept in as soon as the tournament opened and bought massive amounts. The store had stocked national team shirts with the 2019 tournament logo on it for visiting supporters; they were snapped up by the Japanese. Who then turned out in force at all the games, often dressed to support whoever was playing and singing along, with the help of karaoke-style words on the big screens, to everyone's national anthems. One Japanese guy even gained fame by travelling around the country going to most games and painting team jerseys on his naked torso. He made the world news, of course, in his own.

This was all the more remarkable as I remembered another sport's World Cup played in a country where the game was niche. I was still living in the USA when FIFA'S 1994 football tournament took place there. My company was a sponsor, primarily to provide corporate entertainment to European and South American clients. When it came to locals, we couldn't give our ticket allocation away. Nobody cared. There was little news coverage. Dallas was a host city, but I remember little indication anything out of the ordinary was happening besides banners in our offices.

The Japanese, thankfully, took a very different approach.

The volunteers were even more amazing, though positive attitude was often stronger than knowledge of English or the ability to help. We lost half an hour in Kobe trying to follow some cryptic instructions, but eventually got to the right subway line. Every major train station had a rugby-branded help desk throughout the tournament and staffing swelled on game days to include pathfinders along key routes and armies of volunteers around the stadium. There was a rumour going around that the government had marshaled the enormous numbers as a deterrent to the types alcohol-fueled fan conflicts they learned to fear after the FIFA World Cup there in 2002. Fortunately rugby's genial fans demonstrated that they are cut from a different cloth.

Each game had a fan zone with far more host-city delights than I remember from my Rugby World Cup outing in London four years ago. You could nibble on a range of local food ... including BBQ Kobe beef and takoyaki octopus balls, learn to be a Ninja, participate in Japanese craft projects, watch a Samurai costume exhibition or pose in a variety of selfie set-ups. The last, we'd learned by our first game, being perhaps the most Japanese element of all.

The most popular booth at both games we attended was one giving out kamikaze style headbands with Japanese phrases written on them. In Kobe volunteers wrote them for you. In Tokyo you tried your own hand copying from a board of possible options. I chose "Victory". Piers went for "England". The most magical interaction with the locals, however, came at the end of the games, when all of the volunteers lined the paths out of the stadium and thanked us for coming, creating corridors of people giving us "high 5s" as if we'd played in the game ourselves. It was one of the most delightful things that's ever happened to me at a sporting event.

We were supposed to attend three games, but Typhoon Hagibis cancelled the England v. France match. (The outcome of the pool had already been determined by that stage, so the game was deemed unnecessary.) While we understood play was impossible, it was a blow to have a third of our rugby experience wiped away when we'd come that far. Thank heavens we'd added the USA game or, like many on our tour, we would have paid a fortune and travelled far to see just one live match.

I had other reasons for enjoying the American game, of course. There was never any chance that the USA would beat mighty England. The Americans are very good at sevens, the form of the game played in the Olympics and therefore better funded. Rugby in its 15-player form there is probably even more niche than it is in Japan, and the team has only ever beaten a world top 10 team once. (Scotland was having a very bad day.) But American rugby fans ... especially those who travelled for the tournament ... seem to have an almost messianic zeal about their sport. They strike up instant fellowship with anyone who might feel the same way. I've never hugged so many strangers in my life, nor taken photos with them. For that day, it felt like I suddenly had an enormous family of cousins who'd all turned up in Japan for a very boozy reunion.

The alcohol helped assuage the pain of the 45-7 loss. (It would have been a total wipe out had the English not gotten greedy just before the final whistle, thought they'd go for one more try and sloppily lost control of the ball.)

English fans may be more restrained, but Twickenham-style fun followed them to Japan with choruses of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", silly hats and a handful of people in fancy dress. Henry VIII and one of his wives sat behind us (a noble costuming sacrifice in the humid heat), there was the usual complement of crusader knights and a group making a strange attempt to be fish and chips. But the best dressed prize went to three guys in kimono and face paint playing the role of Gilbert & Sullivan's "Three Little Maids". What other sport comes with cross-dressing and allusions to 19th century operetta?

The Argentines, our opponents for the second match we attended, come with a whole songbook of greatest hits, musical instruments and prodigious vocal chords. We rather admired their ability to keep up a continuous racket, with dance moves, but it got irritating once play started and you actually wanted to pay attention to the game. Thankfully, their spirits diminished early on when one of their men got sent off with a red card, and sank to acceptable levels as we started to trounce them. (Final score 39-10.)

I thought rugby would be a sideline of the trip. It was, instead, a constant, bringing us fine company and high spirits throughout. I'm sure the Japanese would have been gracious hosts at any time, but in that window ... with the joy of the tournament and the national team doing better than expected ... the whole country was on a high. They've set a tough example to follow. 2023 is practically local. Just a quick hop over the channel. But will the French ever be able to match the giddy joy of the Japanese atmosphere? We'll just have to wait and see.

Remarkable Nikko Tōshō-gū was the most glorious sight in all Japan

I've saved the best for last. If, out of all the glorious things I saw in three weeks in Japan, I could only pick one, it would be the
Tōshō-gū shrine in Nikko.

The resting place of Tokugawa Ieyasu has it all: drenched in history, dramatic landscape and a concentration of jaw-dropping art and architecture that puts it on par with any of the greatest buildings of the world. It's no wonder that this, plus Ieyasu's grandson's shrine and some other temples, form one of Japan's most noteworthy UNESCO World Heritage sites. Your biggest problem will be finding the time to see enough of it.

It started out as a more humble place. After unifying Japan, founding his dynasty of shoguns and stepping into semi-retirement, Ieyasu picked this spot in his home region for his mausoleum. The family had supported religious communities here for years. But Ieyasu was a soldier with fairly basic tastes. The place he built for himself was, legend has it, simple and elegant. This presented a problem for his grandson, Iemitsu.

By the reign of the third Tokugawa shogun, both the job and the country were stable and the Tokugawas had taken on the trappings of divine-right kings. Iemitsu wanted a funerary shrine as grand and glorious as his palaces ... and his opinion of himself. But he had a problem. Japanese respect for one's ancestors couldn't allow him to have a tomb more opulent than his grandfather's. His solution? Re-build Ieyasu's shrine with such extravagance that his own grand plans could play second fiddle.

The result is staggering.

Tōshō-gū is a complex of buildings climbing a mountain in multiple terraces. It's most notable for the deeply carved, lifelike reliefs painted in bright colours on most of the buildings. One of the gates is nicknamed the higurashi-no-mon, meaning "look at it until sundown and never tire of seeing it." You could say that of the whole extraordinary place.

The approach is up an avenue sunk between stone walls with trees towering on either side. There are other temples and attractions vying for your attention near the bottom. Don't be distracted, as you'll need most of your time for the Tōshō-gū shrine at the top. The pathway up is austere and elegant, and doesn't prepare you at all for the riot of colour you encounter when you get to the plaza at the top. To your left is a five-story pagoda with bright red eaves and balconies, green shutters, golden accents and a crazy mix of colours on the beams holding up the roofs.

There are lively carvings of animals, both real and mythological, above the windows and doors; a preview of what's to come. Across the square, next to the ticket booth, steps ascend steeply to the first of the complex's ceremonial gates. This one, amusingly, has elephants trumpeting from its corners. But not as we know them. It's rather obvious that the sculptors had never seen one of the beasts, so these seem more mythical than the dragons flying all over the buildings.

It's hard to believe that the complex of buildings through the gate is the administrative bit of the shrine, so ornate are they. There are storehouses, smaller temples, secondary gates and a stable for the horses used in ceremonial processions. All are encrusted with sculpted scenes, but the ones on the stable are the most famous. They depict monkeys demonstrating behaviours to be admired, most famously a trio representing see, hear and speak no evil. (Third panel down in the photo below.)

This area is also where you'll start to see clusters of large stone lanterns covered with moss. Each great family of the realm was invited to donate one in honour of Ieyasu; even those who had been on the other side in the civil conflicts of his early career. These reformed enemies' lanterns are placed furthest away from the main shrine building. The more faithful you were, the closer your lantern was to the great man's remains, and the larger and more opulent it was likely to be.

Walking through this "L"-shaped administrative level takes you to another set up steps, atop which you'll find an esplanade with two bell-towers, a temple building to one side and a selection of more impressive lanterns. The most interesting is a European-style oddity, cast in bronze and decorated with barley-twist columns and shields. There's some debate over whether this gift from the Dutch East India Company was crafted by clueless artists who didn't realise they incised a flipped Tokugawa crest, or whether the whole thing was installed by clueless Japanese workers who didn't know what European lanterns looked like. The local guides relate the first story. A hard look validates the second. The whole thing is clearly upside down.

The temple to the far left seems an afterthought amidst everything else here, but it's worth going inside to see the magnificent, writhing dragon painted on the ceiling and to have the priest demonstrate how the building's acoustics were designed so that any sound made directly under the mouth of the creature is amplified.

The most beautiful thing along this esplanade, however, is the gateway to the inner sanctum ... this is the higurashi-no-mon ... and the walls spreading out from it that enclose the buildings at the next level. The gate has multiple levels of dragon heads jutting outwards, with lashings of gold leaf,

white plaster guardian dogs and dragons who stand out by their lack of colour,

and scenes of particularly jolly Japanese people going about their lives.

Each panel of the surrounding carved cloister has three levels of carved decoration representing heaven, earth and water. This gave sculptors a broad scope which they lovingly filled with a dazzling collection of waterfowl, peacocks, clouds and flowers. Any one would be a masterpiece worthy of long concentration in a museum. The fact that there are 25, and these aren't even considered one of the major sights within the complex, gives you an idea of just how much there is to see here.

Climb up and through the gate, which is formally known as the Yōmeimon, and you'll come to a large courtyard in front of the main temple building, which lies through yet another ornate gate. This one has particularly magnificent statues of guardian dogs and dragons standing on the roof corners.

As a mere mortal you don't get to go through that one, however, but have to go around to the side, get rid of your shoes and join a shuffling queue of tourists. There's no photography allowed in the main shrine building, but it doesn't really matter; it's yet more of the exquisite high-relief interplay of flora and fauna with more crazy colours and abundant gold leaf.

Priests bustle quietly down the red-lacquer walkways on the inside of the cloister, which surrounds several other, smaller ceremonial buildings as well as the main one.

One, for example, is a performance stage for ceremonial dances. Another area holds a line of brightly-painted sake barrels ready for holy offering. A door nearby exits into the woods, giving access to Ieyasu's grave.

Above the door is one of the most famous carvings in the whole place, a peacefully sleeping cat. It is lovely, though I'm not quite sure why it's gained such fame as there's far more impressive work here. Nor is it representative of what's through the door. That would have been better shown by a horse, collapsed with exhaustion after being pushed to its limits ... because that may well be how you'll feel after your pilgrimage to the pinnacle of Nikko Tōshō-gū.

I didn't count the steps, but I'd guess the climb is the equivalent of scaling a 15- or 20-story building. The way is all paved with smooth, even stones and grand staircases, and you can stop at landings to admire the gorgeous forest of Japanese cypress you're climbing through, but it's still quite an effort. Thankfully, there's a water fountain and benches at the top, before you encounter the holy of holies.

At this summit, the colour falls away and the pallet is mostly black, whether that's the paint on buildings or the patina of bronze. Even the tree trunks and the shadows between them seem thicker here, lending to the sombre atmosphere. There's another, short flight of stairs up to a small temple, then a path around it and one last burst of steps up to a walled, rectangular courtyard cut into the gentle slope of the mountainside. Closed bronze gates bracketed by snarling bronze guardian dogs block a straight-line access to Ieyasu.

You'll walk around the side. His remains lie in a bell-shaped bronze container capped with a pagoda-style roof, sitting atop a series of stepped octagonal platforms that rise like a pyramid to lift him to heaven. While there's a steady flow of people, it's nothing compared to the crowds below and everyone is respectful of this solemn place. His people proclaimed Ieyasu a Shinto deity after his death and there's no denying that this place of extreme beauty, surrounded by swaying cypress in the quiet mountain air, touches the divine.

If you want to know more about Ieyasu the man, once you trek back down from Nikko Tōshō-gū your ticket also gets you into the museum where you'll find many of his personal effects, a manga film about him and the treasures of the shrine. There's also a small cafe here where you can get drinks, sandwiches and cakes.

If you want to take in all the details and climb to the summit, then digesting the wonders of Ieyasu's mortuary complex will take you at least four hours. If you're coming from Tokyo you will have spent two hours getting here and will need the same to get back, so that's most of your day. Yet Nikko Tōshō-gū is only part of the UNESCO World Heritage site. The temple you passed at the bottom of the processional entry, Rinnō-ji, the Futarasan Shrine and the mausoleum of Ieyasu's grandson, called the Taiyuin, sell tickets for a combined entry. Unless you have two days here, or are a remarkably quick sightseer, don't make the mistake of buying this ticket first ... as we did ... because you'll never have time to see everything. We had a good wander around Rinnō-ji, and it is as impressive as some of the great temples of Kyoto, but didn't have time for anything else.

In fact, if we'd had the flexibility in our agenda I would have loved to have stayed several nights in Nikko. You'd really need to see the temples over two days, not just to have enough time but to give your brain a bit of a break from all that whirling colour and dense detail. But there's much more here. The town itself has an almost Alpine feel, with lots of high-peaked wooden buildings nestled against the mountains. We passed loads of intriguing shops and restaurants. In a land that doesn't do much dairy, local specialities included cheese and baked cheesecake. There are hot springs, hiking trails, a mountain lake and a historical amusement park populated with costumed performers from the golden age of the Shogunate.

All this makes Nikko not only the place with the most magnificent tourist attraction I saw in all of Japan, but the place I most want to return to. One taste wasn't nearly enough.