One of the greatest stories ever told beckons all ages at the Ashmolean

I was obsessed by Greek and Roman mythology as a child. While my peers delighted in Barbie dolls, dinosaurs or Matchbox cars I could recite the 12 labours of Hercules and pretended to be a priestess of Vesta with my imaginary sisters. As you can imagine, this was not a recipe for childhood popularity, though I’m pretty sure it did lay the foundations for a career that turned out to be, ultimately, all about story telling. 

One of the greatest of those Ancient Greek stories is that of the Minotaur, the fierce half-man, half-bull creature imprisoned in a maze in Crete and fed on the war booty of young Athenians until the hero Theseus navigates the Labyrinth and kills the man eater. The brilliance of the current exhibition on the topic at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford is that it’s all about the story. 

An unprecedented loan from the museum at Heraklion, modern capital of Crete near the ruins of Knossos, means you’ll probably never see this many top-quality Minoan artefacts in one place without getting on a plane to Greece. One hundred of the objects on display have never left the country before. And I doubt anyone has done a better job of untangling the fact and fiction archaeologist Sir Arthur Evans twined together early in the 20th century. There are even arresting video installations that pull parts of the show into the realm of modern art. But the Ashmolean doesn’t major on any of this highbrow stuff. Labyrinth: Knossos, Myth & Reality pulls you in with the legend and keeps visitors of all ages interested with solid story telling. The art, history and learning come by osmosis.

You’re plunged into the story from the ticket desk, when designs covering the walls and a dog-legged path to the exhibition’s start make it feel like you’re in the labyrinth itself, stepping through a door and into a dark room to be confronted by the monster himself. This version is a near life-sized statue, a Roman copy of a Greek original. 

Over his shoulder runs a series of films that tell the whole set of stories surrounding the Knossos monster, with typography, graphics and pacing that will satisfy even the shortest attention span. Dig deeper, and this room emphasises the tale’s enduring grip on the imagination, from ancient vase decoration through a Picasso print and a labyrinth-inspired London Underground art installation, with plenty of detours into early Christian maze design, Renaissance painting and Baroque gardens. 

Like Troy, one of the most compelling features of Knossos was a “real or imaginary” debate. Did the cities actually exist, are had they simply been made up as settings for fantastical tales. Both showed up in ancient writings, but there was no trace of them in the modern world. After Heinrich Schliemann found and excavated Troy in the 1870s, the archaeological world fixated on Knossos, and found it soon after. Up until very recently, you would have learned that it was discovered and excavated by an Englishman named Arthur Evans. He’s still the first answer Google gives you to the “who discovered Knossos” question.

But that’s not quite right. The appropriately named Minos Kalokairinos should have the credit. The wealthy businessman and Knossos enthusiast, whose family owned part of the site suspected to hold the lost city, did the first excavation in 1878 and was confident of what he’d found. But politics got in the way. At the time, the Ottoman Turks owned Crete and treated the locals poorly. Any treasures unearthed would probably get transported to museums in Istanbul. 

But the Turks liked the English, and were happy to do a deal with Evans, who was the curator of this same Ashmolean Museum. As concerned as the locals by the possible removal of treasures, he didn’t start digging until after the Ottomans left in 1898. That, and the fact that Evans made sure a museum in nearby Heraklion was built to house the greatest of the treasures he unearthed, is probably why the Greeks don’t hate him in the way they loathe Lord Elgin for his legal (at the time) purchase and transport of the Parthenon marbles. 

But whether he meant to or not, Evans did steal something from Greece: Kalokairinos’ credit for discovering Knossos. Which is why it’s particularly appropriate that the museum he once directed is the one putting on this show, and working so hard to set history straight.

Once we clear up those details, it’s into the main gallery where a treasure trove of artefacts from the palace site unfurls. There are architectural fragments, wall paintings, pottery, furniture, jewellery and ceremonial axes. While Evans might have left most of the artefacts on Crete, he brought home what’s probably the best archive of documentation on the excavations in the world. So this exhibition is possibly even better than a trip to Heraklion when it comes to putting the artefacts in context, complete with beautifully drawn maps and cut-always from the exhibition.

Just as when I saw these treasures for the first time in Heraklion, I was stunned by a mastery of colour and design which makes these 3000+ objects almost modern. Colours and patterns might comfortably grace a set of linens today. The octopus and other sea life swirling across pottery wouldn’t look out of place in a chic kitchen store. The wall painting of olive trees is so close to William Morris’ willow pattern you have to wonder if the late Victorian designer saw and copied. 

And then there are other things that are profoundly alien. While the naked bull jumpers might just turn up in a death-defying YouTube stunt, and beg a connection to Spanish bull fighters, the bare-breasted priestesses holding wriggling, live snakes aloft in their gripped hands are undoubtably from a very different world.

There’s enough of the odd and the exceptional here to keep viewers of all ages interested. Unusually for me, I was in the company of three young people, all of whom found items to interest them here. The curators’ most obvious play for that audience, beyond the focus on storytelling itself, is to include one of the Assassin’s Creed games. Designers Ubisoft included a quest through the ruins of Knossos to slay the Minotaur in their Odyssey installment. In the exhibition, an enormous screen follows an ancient Greek heroine through the ruins to her confrontation with the monster while a display panel explains just how seriously the designers took the history and architecture, actually working with the Ashmolean to get things right.

Not only is this gallery a compelling and vivid bit of world building after seeing all the bits and pieces that would have furnished it, but it’s a real talking point for families. This was the part of the exhibition where my 13-year-old godson was most engaged, showing off his knowledge of the Minotaur and explaining details he’d taken in while playing the game. His mother had the revelation, for the first time, that gaming might be educational and not a complete waste of time. A win for everyone.

While the curators don’t pound the point home, the Ubisoft inclusion is also appropriate because this mix of history and imagination, with some artistic liberties taken to engage audiences, is exactly what Evans did 120 years ago. He rebuilt and restored the site in ways modern archeology would no longer tolerate, and made conclusions about the people and functions of the palace that were based as much on guesswork and personal preference as fact. Even the name we give to this culture … the Minoans … was made up by Evans rather than drawn from history. In my experience, one of the reasons that Knossos is so spectacular to visit is precisely because Evans’ world building gave us a colourful, tangible portal to a vividly imagined past. Whether it’s any more accurate than wandering through in Assassin’s Creed is still a matter of hot debate.

The final parts of the exhibition contain a gallery on newer discoveries in areas around the original excavation, and a video installation inspired by Evans’ fanciful restorations. The 18-minute ramble by Elizabeth Price is narrarated by imaginary, robotic curators who have been asked to clear up the hard drives of the Ashmolean and the neighbouring Pitt-Rivers museum. They draw unexpected, beautiful but often completely wrong conclusions from their mash up. Though meant, at its 2016  creation, to be a comment on what the restoration may have gotten wrong in Knossos, the automated voice prompted me to think about how AI might interpret and curate our artefacts of a world suddenly stripped of humans. It was very weird, but it’s now the thing from the exhibition I’d be most keen to see again.

I suspect I may indeed get back for a second viewing. While Labyrinth was great for a family outing, there’s a second layer of discovery I’d like to make with a longer, quieter visit. Like all great stories, multiple tellings reveal new things.

Labyrinth: Knossos, Myth and Reality is on at the Ashmolean until 30 July. 

Oxford's Tolkien exhibition reveals a man as fascinating as his books

On the surface, the people of the United States and England seem remarkably similar. It takes actually living in the opposite country for the deep divisions to surface. Public expressions of patriotism are a classic example.

An American will fly, wear, sing to or otherwise publicly celebrate their flag at the slightest provocation. There are multiple patriotic holidays decked out with the Stars and Stripes. In England, overt displays of flag waving beyond sporting events or royal occasions are regarded with suspicion. Though this has changed a bit since Queen Elizabeth's Jubilee year and recent Olympic successes, there's still a sense of discomfort amongst many that too much flag waving indicates an affinity with fascism and racism. True English patriotism, I've found, is quieter ... and most likely to be  found outside of the cities.

It's the fierce competition of villages battling it out for Britain in Bloom awards. Intense pride in the local bluebell woods. Generations coming together, dressed in white, to play village cricket. The 2014 government survey found that 83% of the English now live in urban areas, but our sense of patriotism still seems to be indelibly bound up in the countryside.

Perhaps that's why J.R.R. Tolkien is so fiercely beloved by the English. Many readers, after all, see the Shire as a vision of the best of rural England, Sauron and his forces of evil as the opposing troops of rampant industrialism, and hobbits as the stout yeomen of Britain's good old days. You can test that relationship for yourself in an intriguing little exhibition at the Bodleian Library in Oxford. And while a deep knowledge of Middle Earth isn't required ... the notes, charts and maps displayed there give a fascinating insight into how an author constructs a plot, and thus would captivate anyone interested in the art of story telling ... true Tolkien aficionados will be delighted.

Tolkien: Maker of Middle Earth takes a hard look at the man behind the legend. Most people know the basics: Oxford professor of Anglo-Saxon and English literature, fanatical about detail down to creating his own languages, father of the whole genre of epic fantasy fiction. Here we learn about his childhood, education, military years, family life, sparkling sense of humour and creativity far beyond his writing.

I had not realised that Tolkien was a talented artist who created the instantly-recognisable original cover for The Hobbit. His artwork was my favourite part of the show. There's a gorgeous set of scenes from the Lord of The Rings that clearly influenced Peter Jackson. Wonderful designs for Elvish jewels and writhing dragons. Illustrations from a series of Christmas stories on the wanderings of Santa that he wrote for his children. Doodles scrawled on newspaper margins and over crosswords that show how he never stopped creating. I'm amazed that some design house hasn't picked up on his work for a range of wallpapers and decorative fabrics; there's luscious stuff here.

And there are maps. Lots of maps. With all this evidence of how visual a person he was, it makes even more sense that the map ... now a cliche of fantasy epics ... was a beautifully detailed foundation stone of Middle Earth. Some here are finished products meant for readers, some working documents, all beautiful. If you have any doubt about the professor's obsession with detail, witness the rigorous creation, on graph paper, of exact scales drawn from a measurement system based on the length of a hobbit's toenail. No distance traveled in a day in the books will ever be further than the creatures he created could actually go. In addition to the Tolkien-drawn originals, there are a couple of digital maps that let you explore different characters' journeys in the different books. The best takes advantage of video projection to cast the landscape in 3D and have shadows shrink and grow off the mountain ranges as time passes.

There's also a fun, life-sized projection of the gates of Moria at the entry to the show, setting the mood that you're about to enter a world of magic, and a big, projected Smaug dancing across the floor once you're in the gallery. Several sound stations invite you to don headphones to explore details like getting your Elvish pronunciation right. But most of the exhibitions are quite old school: peering through glass at preserved documents. It's also remarkably small: just one gallery. I would have loved more. A gallery, for example, on the cultural influences (old Anglo-Saxon, Icelandic, Medieval, etc.) that Tolkien drew on, another on the vast cultural impact that his creations have sparked.

But that's not the point here. As you would expect from a combination of the rigorously controlled Tolkien Trust and the university associated with the author for most of his adult life, everything here is tightly focused on the man and his creative processes, and drawn from the two organisations' archives. In a world where so many blockbuster exhibitions overwhelm you with their scope, I suppose it's no bad thing to visit one that leaves you hungry for more. And, delightfully, it's free. You just need to pre-book tickets here.

For a more overt display of patriotism, we were back at the Highclere Battle Proms the next weekend. They were celebrating their 100th concert that night (they do about five a summer). It was only our sixth. The formula doesn't change much. People queue up from about 2:30 for gates to open at 4, then it's a mad rush to claim a spot on the broad lawns in front of the house the world knows better as Downton Abbey. In addition to flag-waving patriotism, the English get to display their flair for competitive picnicking: there are a lot of tablecloths, candelabras and fine food and wine coming out of well-stocked hampers. Over the years my husband has been bitten by the competitive bug, steadily upgrading our kit so that we look like traders setting out to conquer the Silk Road as we queue up for entry. Though he's generally happy with the set up, I suspect our two poles with their English, British Army, Danish and American flags will be tweaked before next year. They weren't flying highly or proudly enough.

The show doesn't change much. Historical re-enactors (usually Regency) set up at the far corner. There are some cavalry displays in the late afternoon. Music starts with a WW2-era group. There's a rousing Spitfire flyover. Then a two-part classical concert that's always much the same. But who ever really tires of the 1812 Overture with real cannon, Beethoven's Battle Symphony with fireworks and mass sing-alongs of Jerusalem and Land of Hope and Glory?

A groaning buffet and bar kept people going throughout the afternoon and evening. Pork pies, sausage rolls and crisps. Coronation chicken, chicken and wild mushroom terrine, roasted carrot salad, potato salad, insalata caprese. (Potatoes and tomatoes all from my garden.) Key lime cheesecake and cheese board. Free-flowing wine, and blackcurrant squash for the designated drivers and children.

It was a spread that would gain even a hungry hobbit's approval. I suspect Tolkien would have enjoyed the whole evening. And I'd love to see how he would have painted it.

Oxford museums offer quirky delights without the London crowds

I have twice had the misfortune to visit London's Natural History museum during the school holidays.
Young family members pleaded, we obliged, but it wasn't great for any of us.  The dinosaur museum ... as the little people are more likely to know it ... is a case study in the perils of popularity. We all flock to see extraordinary things, until the crowds are so thick the experience becomes one of survival rather than joy.

I'm happy to say that I've found a worthy substitute in Oxford. The Natural History Museum there is a scaled-down version of its London cousin. While lacking the animatronic T Rex, it offers dinosaurs and all the other wonders you'd see in South Ken, but in quantities more suited to a youthful attention span. Without the fame and expectations of London, they also seem free to have a but more fun. As you approach the museum, you'll notice dinosaur footprints stamped across the green field in front. You've just missed one ... pop inside to see others!

With a fraction of the crowds, you'll actually be able to wander at your leisure and enjoy. Better yet, it's linked to the Pitt-Rivers Museum. This is one of the most delightfully quirky collections in the country, and a place with vast appeal for the kids. (Pictured above.)

Visiting the Pitt Rivers is like having a time machine whip you back to 1890. Though the collection has expanded considerably since the eponymous general donated his 22,000 items, you'd never know it, because the architecture and the displays are all resolutely Victorian. It's a magical eyeful from the moment you cross the threshold: A sunken ground floor packed with old display cases, two encircling levels of balconies with more treasures, and the vast space in the middle dominated by cultural artefacts like totem poles and fishing boats. It is, for any Harry Potter fan, the room of hidden things brought gloriously to life.

General Pitt Rivers' philosophy ... vastly unpopular today ... was that culture evolves from simple to complex. If you collect and study the objects from more "primitive" cultures, you can build a picture of the evolution of mankind. Thus we have items that do similar things, but are from all over the world, grouped together. Consider, for example, the case on body shaping and decoration, where a Victorian corset, Japanese foot binding equipment, African neck-stretching rings and a South Seas tattooing kit sit cheek by jowl. Forget evolution. For me, the fascination is simply to see how similar humanity is across differences of distance, time and culture.

But that's all far too esoteric for the kids. They'll love the Pitt Rivers quite simply because it's filled with cool and bizarre stuff. Shrunken heads, scary funerary masks, boats, musical instruments, saddles, dolls, card games and clothing. Don't miss the stylish cape made out of seal intestine by some enterprising Eskimos, in the case devoted to waterproof clothing. The weaponry collection on the top floor is particularly good. Who knew there was such variety in throwing weapons, or that they could be so beautiful?

I'd head for the Pitt Rivers before the Natural History museum, even though you have to cross through the first to get to the second. That's because, frankly, the Pitt Rivers is so fascinating, and stimulating, you'll want to attack it with a fresh brain.

Back in the Natural History Museum, the kids have the convenience of most of the major displays being in a single vast hall under one roof. And what an extraordinary roof it is. Gothic in style, but Victorian in construction, cast iron foliage wraps around around columns and stretches to the glass roof above. Don't forget to look up. Below, in addition to the dinosaurs and the parade of ancient mammal skeletons, don't miss the collection of beautifully taxidermised animals you can get nose to nose with. The Shetland Pony is, evidently, most popular, though my choice is the bear. There's a
brilliant Dodo bird to show you what we've recently lost, and wonderful butterfly collections to show you what's in danger. Best of all is a little free-standing cabin with a curtain. Slip inside, and you're in darkness only lit by the strange glow of different kinds of luminous rocks.

Over the years I've spent my Oxford museum time at the Ashmolean. (I've written about it here.) Another great museum in miniature, it's like a mash-up of the British Museum and the National Gallery. And it's worth your time, too. But if you have kids in tow ... or if you're in the mood for some childish fun yourself ... head across town and check out the other two.