Russell-Cotes is an Edwardian treasure trove on Bournemouth’s striking seafront

Bournemouth, on England’s Dorset coast, is more likely to conjure visions of buckets, spades and fish and chips than high culture. But there’s a museum amongst the coastal amusements that deserves the attention of any ardent sightseer. The Russell-Cotes Gallery and Museum is, like the Wallace Collection in London and the Museo Poldi Pezzoli in Milan, one of those wonderful treasure houses built and filled by 19th-century collectors who then gave the whole place to the public.

While people have lived on this pleasant bit of the southern English coast for most of human history, Bournemouth didn’t hit the big time until the 19th century, when the new railways made this one of the easiest stretches of sandy beach and attractive coastline to reach from London. The entrepreneur Merton Russell-Cotes took advantage of this trend, building the Royal Bath Hotel to cater to the richest and most famous visitors. As Bournemouth thrived, so did he and his wife Annie.

Eventually, they had the money to become significant collectors of art, furniture and decorative objects, Which they originally used to furnish their elegant hotel. With the hotel’s reputation established and team running at peak efficiency, they were also able to travel widely, including a long trip to Japan. That country, only opened to the west for a few decades, had become wildly fashionable. Gilbert and Sullivan were taking London by storm with The Mikado, the Impressionists were finding inspiration in Japanese prints, and opera fans would soon be weeping over Madame Butterfly. The treasures Merton and Annie acquired in Japan form an impressive collection within the house, which was partially built just to give them proper display space. But this is only the tip of the iceberg.

They named the house East Cliff Hall, and it was finished in 1901 as a birthday gift from Merton to Annie. It was one of the last Victorian villas ever built in England, boasting all the modern conveniences of electricity and plumbing. It stands as a curious hybrid of historicist decoration and cutting-edge domestic technology, befitting a couple with one foot in tradition and another boldly embracing the modern world.

Each room is a masterpiece of Edwardian design, strongly influenced by the Arts and Crafts movement. There is beautiful woodwork, opulent wallpaper, delicate stained glass and colourful murals, many bringing the natural world inside. The life-sized peacocks painted around the cornice of the dining room, strutting on their gold leaf background, are particularly impressive. The swallows in the stained glass windows are so lifelike it’s as if they’re flying into the room.

In true Edwardian style, there are wonderfully eccentric touches. Stars and moons are scattered across the ceiling of the main hall, giving an otherwise traditional room a sense of magic. There’s a whole room turned into a mini-museum honouring an actor friend of the family’s, and a lavish Oriental room straight out of Arabian Nights. You wouldn’t be surprised to encounter the ghost of Oscar Wilde puffing on a hookah. While Japan gets top billing, the couple collected from across the globe, and you’ll find objects from Egypt, Australasia, and beyond tucked throughout the house.

Best of all are the bedrooms, with broad bay windows and slim, wrap-around balconies overlooking the sea. These days the view is slightly less spectacular because of modern developments on the waterfront, but it’s still magnificent. There’s a chaise longue in Annie’s room where you’re invited to recline and contemplate the view.

Merton and Annie’s collections quickly outgrew the ability of the house to showcase them, so the builders returned to add a series of museum-style gallery rooms onto one side. These are elegant, top-lit spaces, and today display mostly paintings and a bit of sculpture. There are no immediately recognisable masterpieces here, though you’ll probably know Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Venus Verticordia when you come face-to-face with her. The painting was controversial in its day for its sensuality, and seems a fitting centrepiece for a house so steeped in fin-de-siècle flamboyance. The lack of big names doesn’t matter. The exoticism and love of history that runs through the house come to life in canvases of historical and biblical scenes. Landscapes from local artists show the Jurassic Coast at its best. There are some spectacular portraits of that optimistic generation that kicked off the century—before the First World War crushed the joy out of everyone.

There’s a smaller display space at the back for rotating exhibitions, free with entry. At the moment the focus is on May Morris, a woman who worked for and contributed mightily to the output of her father, William. I never knew. For anyone fond of discovering stories of women who deserve to be better known, this alone is worth the trip.

Despite its opulence, if you ignore the gallery rooms the Russell-Cotes house isn’t that big. Many modern homes would exceed the handful of bedrooms upstairs, though the location and views would make it quite an expensive one indeed. Strangely for a house of this era, you’ll see no service wing, no staff rooms and no kitchens. Merton and Annie didn’t bother, since they owned the hotel across the garden and could call on its staff for anything they needed. It must have been a good life.

The couple had three children who survived into adulthood, but they didn’t inherit the house. Merton had been mayor of Bournemouth and was perhaps the promoter most responsible for putting the town on the map for A-listers. In 1909, he was knighted for his services to the arts and to the town. He loved the place so much he wanted his house to become a resource for future generations. 

Locals clearly still adore Merton and Annie’s house today. It’s staffed by enthusiastic volunteers, one of whom was giving an impromptu luncheon concert on the piano in the great hall as we visited. The entrance is through a modern addition tastefully tucked into the western side of the building; locals clearly come to use the café and enjoy the gardens, both of which don’t require an admission fee.

The garden is neither large nor exceptional, but it’s extremely pretty. One feels the terraced borders of traditional English perennials would have delighted Gertrude Jekyll (and were probably inspired by her). A line of trees between the house and hotel—still there, but no longer under family ownership—blocks the view of modern seaside development. Instead, your eyes are forced southeast, where the only things beyond the garden gates are steep embankments of wildflowers and grasses, plunging down to the beach. Just across the water you can see the western tip of the Isle of Wight, with its iconic Needles rising from the churning waves. On a return visit I’ll make more time to sit here and watercolour.

The gilded age at the turn of the 20th century saw many injustices, forced inhumane working conditions and fostered shocking gaps between rich and poor. And yet it was also an age of enormous generosity, when philanthropists like the Russell-Coteses felt a need to give back for their good fortune. This treasure house has beautified Bournemouth for more than a century, and looks set to do so for many years to come. Thank you, Merton and Annie, for paying some of your good fortune forward.

Pirates at the National Maritime Museum offer a half-full treasure chest

I was obsessed with pirates as a kid. Most likely thanks to my grandfather, who loved the old classics like Captain Bloodand Against All Flags, and would make a ceremony of watching them with me whenever one came on TV. That early spark was fanned into flame by annual visits to the fort in St. Augustine, Florida—basically a ready-made stage set for an Errol Flynn film. Pirates of the Caribbean was my firm favourite on Disney property decades before it became a film franchise. Buccaneer has been my go-to Halloween costume for as long as I can remember.

That fascination endured into adulthood. I seriously considered doing my master’s degree in history with a concentration on the Golden Age of Piracy, before the need for a steady income convinced me to chart a different course. But my interest—and my library on the topic—have remained and grown steady over the years. So you can imagine my delight when the UK’s National Maritime Museum in Greenwich announced a major exhibition on the subject.

Did it live up to my lofty expectations?

Not quite. For a piracy nerd deeply steeped in the topic, it was a bit disappointing. I didn’t really learn anything new, and I found the quantity of items on display a little underwhelming. But I’m very far from your average punter here. I suspect most visitors will find it an entertaining overview. The material on pirates in fiction is great fun, and the sections on piracy in the Far East and modern piracy may be new to many. I just wanted more—and had been hoping for a far larger exploration than what’s essentially a three-gallery show.

I definitely enjoyed the first part the most, which focuses on pirates in fiction. The key points here are that pirates have long fascinated us—especially since the Victorian era—and that we tend to create the pirates we need for our time. The Boys’ Own stories of the 19th century and the gentleman adventurers of Hollywood’s golden age bear little resemblance to Johnny Depp’s staggering, comic Jack Sparrow, or to the same-sex love stories now imagined for Anne Bonny and Mary Read, or Blackbeard and Stede Bonnet. (There’s no evidence for either pairing, but they fit the current zeitgeist.) I particularly appreciated the detailed look at Captain Pugwash, not part of my American childhood and thus mostly new to me. I also loved a case full of haute couture inspired by tricorn-topped adventurers.

It’s a shame we didn’t get to see more video from The Pirates of Penzance or the swashbuckling films of the ’50s and ’60s. The latter are only represented by a few clips flashing by on a wall.

The middle section tackles what’s come to be known as the Golden Age of Piracy. This is the source material for the fairy tale: mostly poor white European men seizing opportunities otherwise impossible for their social class, operating largely in the Caribbean (though a few have cracking good stories in the Indian Ocean), and mostly confined to the brief window between 1650 and 1730. The mythologising started early. Captain Johnson published his A General History of the Pyrates in 1724, a compendium of dramatic, often salacious biographies. It was an immediate bestseller and remains, along with a similar book by the writer Exquemelin, “the Bible” of pirate lore. There’s an original copy in the exhibition.

There’s a visually lush recreation of a captain’s cabin that helps you understand the details of a pirate’s working life, an impressive row of weapons and flags, and a painful-looking cage that drives home how bad things got when the law caught up. But I was surprised there wasn’t more—particularly on personalities.

We’re missing my favourite pirate of all time: Henry Avery. Supposedly so persuasive, he convinced his crew to get in one boat while he and the treasure got in another, setting off for the coast of Ireland where they would divide the spoils. He disappeared with the loot. Most of his men were picked up, tried and executed. Avery is one of the great mysteries of history—rumoured to have reinvented himself as an English squire. One of the works of historical fiction I’d like to write is about his children discovering the truth, and how that unravels their lives.

We also don’t get nearly enough of Henry Morgan, the man who went from pirate to governor and conducted one of the most thrilling attacks against the Spanish of all time. There were a few panels on famous names, but not nearly enough for my taste. I would also have liked much more on pirate lifestyle. I might have missed it, but I didn’t see anything on the rise of Port Royal as a pirate capital—surely a model of what now lies underwater thanks to an earthquake would have been in order.

There are no model ships in this section, and little overall on pirate sailing technique or why they favoured certain vessels. Given the number of pirate-themed video games in the world, it’s a missed opportunity not to include an interactive game to demonstrate strategies for attacking much larger prey … perhaps sponsored by one of the game makers.

I found the final section on global piracy the most interesting—both because the territory was less familiar and because there was simply more to look at. There’s a particularly impressive ship model, a gorgeous table centrepiece celebrating victory over sea bandits, and lots of dramatic 19th-century paintings. That century seems to offer a much stronger visual record. This section explores the Barbary Corsairs, who were a thorn in European sides for centuries. (The curators resisted linking the historic trend to today’s migration patterns across the Mediterranean. I think that could have been fascinating, but dangerous.)

Forget another tired instalment of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. I want to see a film about Zheng Yi Sao, the Chinese pirate queen who built a fleet of 1,800 ships and 80,000 men to terrorise Asian seas. She was so successful, the Chinese government had to buy her off—including a pardon—which allowed her to retire and become one of the early leaders of Macau’s gambling industry.

The exhibition ends with a digital heat map showing where modern piracy occurs today—a sobering reminder that real pirates are still out there, and they’re not lovable rogues.

The curators of this show faced challenges well beyond walking the proverbial plank. This is a topic for which there simply isn’t that much surviving material. Pirates didn’t leave a lot behind, and even the most dedicated fans have a limit to the number of battered cutlasses they can examine with interest. Enhancing the record with models and digital interaction takes cash, and doing too much of it risks intellectual snobs accusing the show of drifting from education to entertainment. Plus, with a topic like this, you know you’ll be flooded with children. Balancing fun for them with real depth for adults—and confronting the unsavoury realities of pirate life—is a tough brief.

While I might have wanted more, the National Maritime Museum does a solid job of working within those parameters to create something both entertaining and informative. X marks the spot—if you can to Greenwich before the show closes on 4 January 2026.

A rugby fan's first football game: average sport, impressive fans

My cousins are the sporty side of the family. They travel to championships and competitions the way my side sought out museums and history. My cousin acquires team-branded sportswear the way I hunt down regional food specialities for the larder.

Thus while my focus for this trip to Milan was introducing them to the Sforza Castle and the rooftop of the Duomo, their advance planning was all about snagging tickets to take me to an important Inter Milan game on the Sunday. Plus a shopping spree at the Inter store on Saturday to kit the whole family out appropriately.

Athletic spectacles are not, as regular readers will know, entirely alien to me. As a St. Louisan, baseball is my birthright; I’ve seen Cardinals games in multiple cities — including London. Rugby features prominently in the Bencard social calendar, with at least five England internationals in our diary each year and a strong track record of following the team to foreign fields. At the end of this summer, we’ll be attending three Women’s Rugby World Cup games as the tournament plays out across England.

But I’d never been to a football match.

To be honest, I had never been tempted. As a rugby fan whose only exposure to football comes via television news — which is often as much about player antics, tacky wives and hooligan fans as it is about actual gameplay — the prospects weren’t promising. I approached the game with three primary prejudices:

1. Compared to rugby, football is slow and boring, with little action.

2. Football players are badly behaved prima donnas, collapsing dramatically at the lightest touch.

3. Football fans are thugs. The atmosphere is potentially dangerous, alcohol is banned in stadiums, and opposing fans have to be kept apart for safety.

That was not a recipe for enjoyment. But this was Italy, my cousin's sons were very excited, I had three large men to protect me, and I’m up for anything once. So why not?

Surprises from the Start
I was pleasantly surprised. The game was moderately interesting — still boring compared to rugby, but watchable, with some genuinely exciting moments. More importantly, there was no sign of bad behaviour. Though opposing fans are kept in separate sections, I saw no unpleasantness before, during or after the match. The crowd included far more women and children than I expected, and — contrary to what I’d heard — alcohol was available. In fact, as in American stadiums, vendors walked the aisles, passing drinks to your seat.

This may be down to practicality. The rows at Milan’s San Siro stadium are steeply raked, and the seats don’t flip up. Navigating past people already seated requires the balance of a mountain goat and a physique slimmer than mine. Only true desperation could tempt you to move once settled.

Though the original 1926 stadium has been updated — most recently in the 1990s — it’s not exactly comfortable. There are very few lifts and no escalators, so get ready to climb. The vertiginous elevation means everyone has a good view, but the lack of handrails makes descent fairly terrifying. One wrong move and you feel you could launch yourself like an Olympic diver onto the pitch below.

The Real Entertainment: The Fans
Any discomfort was worth it just to witness the show the fans put on. I’ve never attended a sporting event where the audience sustains such constant, passionate involvement. While most stadiums erupt during moments of opportunity or crisis, here the crowd is engaged from start to finish.

There are rituals to respond to each player’s name as the team is announced. Fan conductors on booming drums lead chants and songs, which the rest of the crowd bellows in unison. Supporters’ clubs from across northern Italy bring enormous banners and flags, waving them throughout. I couldn’t help but think of the group rituals of the Catholic mass and the precision of Renaissance flag drill teams — distilled into modern sport.

The game itself didn’t shift many of my prejudices. Though we got two goals from each team, at least 70 of the 90 minutes seemed to consist of men passing a ball back and forth with little effort toward scoring. The players certainly lived up to my image of them as delicate flowers. I confess to indulging in a few wicked fantasies of how they’d fare if three rugby players tackled them properly.

But my assumptions about the fans were totally overturned. Though the two sides were physically separated, there was no aggression. Everyone was cheerful, polite, and respectful. I was particularly surprised by how many families with children were there. In a country where queuing barely exists, fans at San Siro were as orderly as the English..

Food and Public Transport beat the British Experience

While the event food lacked the variety we enjoy at Twickenham — vendors span the world with British hog roasts, African barbecue, Eastern Mediterranean wraps and Asian salads — San Siro more than made up for that in quality. Here. you're pretty much limited to panini. Truck after truck of them, wrapping around the stadium. We weren’t expecting much, but it was late and we knew restaurants would be closed by the time we got back to the hotel.

What we got was a sandwich worthy of a proper restaurant: succulent chicken breast, grilled peppers and onions, some kind of piquant sauce, all tucked into crusty bread engineered to absorb and amplify the flavour of the juices. Perfection.

Even more impressive than the sandwich? The return journey on Milan's metro.

Anyone who stereotypes modern Italians as disorganised should experience Milan’s public transport during a major event. Turnstiles control entry to the station, with electronic screens above counting down the seconds until the next group is let in. Once the gates open, the screens display the number of people allowed in the next wave, counting down as passengers pass through. Once they reach their limit, the timers for the next intake return.

The result? No dangerous crushes. Once inside the station, the is kept at manageable levels; unlike the truly frightening crushes I've encountered at Twickenham or after an event at the 02. Milanese football fans outside at least know how long they’ll be waiting. It’s orderly, efficient and surprisingly calm. London could learn a lesson. And we could use one of those panini trucks at Twickers.

Find a video about my experience here on TikTok 

A bit of culture and a lot of convivial dining dominate a return to Milan

I didn’t expect to be back in Milan just six months after entertaining you (hopefully) with our last adventure here. But my family from Los Angeles was starting a 10-day Italian holiday in the city. I hadn’t seen most of them in five years, so I couldn’t miss the chance and this was the most efficient place for us to meet up.

I had two days on my own before they arrived, then two days to show them around. They’re moderate sightseers but—unsurprisingly, given the cumulative total of Italian DNA in our bloodstreams—like to catch up over a dining table. So our adventures included a bit of culture, a lot of food, and a football match I’ll describe in my next article. 

Here’s a roundup of what we got up to. If you’re planning a trip to Milan, do consider this in partnership with my articles from December 2024. (Sforza Castle, which I revisited, was covered here.)

The Museo Poldi Pezzoli

Unlike the Certosa di Pavia, which I explored on my first solo day, this museum is right in the heart of tourist Milan—just a few hundred yards from La Scala opera house. Yet as far as visitor numbers go, it’s just as far off the beaten track.  I never shared a room with more than three other people as I wandered through this exceptional museum, very similar in size and mood to London’s Wallace Collection.

Like Sir Richard Wallace, Gian Giacomo Poldi Pezzoli was an aristocratic 19th-century collector who, having no children, donated his urban mansion and its collections to the nation. The Milanese palazzo houses a quirky and exquisite collection of treasures: late medieval and Renaissance art from Milanese masters, a Baroque room overflowing with porcelain and decorative arts, a couple of very famous Botticellis, an eye-popping collection of pre-19th-century clocks and pocket watches, jewellery, striking portraits, and an armoury.

My star sight, however, was the studiolo: Poldi Pezzoli’s personal study, and reportedly his favourite room—where he chose to be moved before he died. It’s a glorious combination of frescoes, gilding, stained glass, and sculpture, pushing 19th-century Gothic Revival to its limits in anticipation of the Italian Liberty style. A sumptuous jewel box of a room, and worth the price of admission alone.

The Duomo Roof Walk
This is about as solidly “on” the beaten track as you can get—probably second only to Leonardo’s Last Supper on the must-do list for Milan. There’s a reason for that: it is magnificent.

I’m on record saying the inside of the cathedral is a disappointment; its exterior is what’s worth your time. And there’s no better way to appreciate the splendour of the medieval stonework than to get up on the roof and see it close up.

You can walk up or pay a bit extra to take the lift, then do a circuit around the whole building, with a final climb up another set of steps along the front façade to reach the spine of the cathedral. It’s fascinating to compare the original statuary and decorative elements to newer replacements (easily spotted by their lighter colour), and to marvel at the level of detail. Much of this work would have been invisible to those on the ground, yet every fold of a robe, line of a cheek, or vein of a leaf is carved in loving detail—for the glory of God.

Even if you take the lift up, most tickets assume you’ll walk down. If you have a walking stick or mobility issues, you can talk the guards into letting you ride down as well.

Sunday Like Locals
My cousin’s wife has her own cousins in Milan, so we all came together for an extended family Sunday. We started with Mass at Santa Maria del Carmine. This is a church that, in Milan, is unremarkable and barely makes the guidebooks, yet would be a headline attraction in many other cities.

It has Renaissance bones, a Baroque altar lined with impressive life-sized silver reliquary busts, and a variety of side chapels ranging from original Renaissance to baroque to Gothic Revival. As a Catholic, I find attending Mass in a foreign country an interesting way to dip into local culture. The ritual is familiar, but the language foreign—you’re participating like a native, yet still an outsider.

The church sits in the heart of Milan’s posh Brera neighbourhood, which hosts an excellent Sunday market—mostly antiques with a few crafts. After Mass, we took a pleasant passeggiata through lively but not overcrowded streets, eventually circling back to almost exactly where we’d started.

Convivium Ristorante, just across the square from the church, was our lunch spot. Its eclectic East-meets-West design (including some enormous Buddha heads) contrasts with its resolutely Milanese menu. The staff filled our nine-person table with shared starters before we tucked into individual mains. The food was excellent, but secondary to the atmosphere—an ideal Sunday afternoon of familial connection, lingering until the place closed for its afternoon break.

Eating in the Galleria
Even more than the previous meal, this was about the experience rather than the food. You’re going to pay a premium—probably 20% to 40% more than elsewhere—for the same dishes you’d get across town, but you’re buying the privilege of sitting in one of the most iconic architectural spaces in Europe. 

Don’t bother with any of these restaurants unless you’re sitting outside with a view. Neoclassical buildings rise around you under a sparkling glass arcade, while the world promenades by on inlaid marble streets inspired by Ancient Rome.

We ate at Salotto, near the Piazza della Scala exit. I suspect all the restaurants here are similar: cheerful staff fluent in English, decent antipasti, weak spritzes, slightly soggy pizza—but no pressure to leave once you’re settled. That’s what you’re paying for, so linger. See and be seen.

Meat Feast
Il Mannarino is a top-quality butcher with an attached restaurant just south of Centrale Station (Via Carlo Tenca 12). Vegetarians need not apply. Culinary heretics who prefer their meat well-done should also stay home. But if you revere beef and pork, this is the place for you.

You order at the counter, take a seat, and wait for the magic. The family had just arrived after an epic trek from LA and were far too tired to make decisions, so we told the staff: just bring us nice things. A procession of delights followed. Highlights included rare bistecca fiorentina, meatballs, and Puglian bombetta—little meat rolls of pork shoulder and caciocavallo cheese wrapped in prosciutto and fried crisp.

Wine isn’t available by the glass—the smallest unit is a carafe. Sensible, really. This food deserves multiple glasses of red. 

Antica Trattoria della Pesa
Worth booking. Worth taking a taxi. This classic Milanese restaurant claims to be one of the city’s oldest in continuous operation. Today, its Porta Garibaldi neighbourhood has been transformed by cutting-edge redevelopment. This is where you’ll find the Bosco Verticale, high-rises planted with vertical forests and visible from the train station.

The restaurant itself is a holdover from when this was a gritty industrial area near one of Milan’s main gates. They set up the kitchen where the best produce first arrived in town. Their menu is firmly rooted in traditional Lombard cuisine, serving ossobuco and risotto alla Milanese on par with Trattoria all’Antica in the Solari district. (I would have returned there, but it was too far from our hotel. This was a worthy substitute.)

Where We Stayed
Continuing our loyalty to Club Accor—and collecting those all-important reward points— I tried out the Ibis Milano Centrale, near Centrale Station. While I prefer the Solari neighbourhood, with its Mercure and direct connection to Linate Airport, I was surprised to find I actually preferred this Ibis.

Technically, it’s  a lower-tier hotel than the Mercure, but the room décor was more cheerful, the lobby larger and more comfortable, with a proper bar and restaurant (unlike the Mercure’s pokey breakfast room). It’s also just a short walk to the stop for the Line 1 tram, which runs right past La Scala, the Galleria, and the Castle. I’m likely to book here again—despite its “budget” label, it was the better hotel.