Beauty is more than skin deep on London's new Fourth Plinth sculpture

A lamassu first opened my eyes to the realisation that there was civilisation beyond the Western European tradition I called my own.

I couldn't have expressed it like that at the time. I was eight.

My mother used to escort her art history class to Chicago to show them more of what they studied "in the flesh". The University of Chicago's Oriental Institute was always on the agenda. And there, wandering by myself in a quiet, cavernous gallery, I came face to face ... actually more face-to-kneecap ... with one of the the giant winged creatures that served as guardian figures at the gates of Assyrian palaces. The towering statue is a placid bull with a man's head, delicate feathers carved from shoulders upward to give him a mighty wingspan. Chicago's lamassu gazes down with a benign smile. As alien and awesome as the creature was, I instantly understood it was a guardian.

I've had a soft spot for the creatures ever since, and that one sparked my appreciation for the staggering cultural larder between the Tigris and Euphrates. I've never been there and have no family links to the place, but I am one of those odd people who ... as politics and wars have raged across the territory ... think of magnificent ziggurats, signature scrolls, relief carvings and winged bulls before oil, deserts, dictators and terrorists.

I was, therefore, pleased to see that a modern take on a lamassu was going to top Trafalgar Square's fourth plinth for the next two-year slot in London's rotating civic art scheme. Pleasure that turned to delight when I discovered the artist is also a professor at my alma mater, Northwestern University.

The lamassu took its place on Wednesday, and I was lucky enough to attend a chat about it between artist Michael Rakowitz and journalist Jon Snow at the British Museum yesterday. Complex layers of meaning surround the sculpture. You can enjoy it in complete ignorance ... it is remarkably beautiful ... but understanding its origins makes it all the more magical.

The new sculpture is part of a series Rakowitz has been producing since 2003 called the invisible
enemy should not exist. In it, he re-creates artefacts stolen from the National Museum of Baghdad during the war or, in the lamassu's case, destroyed in ISIS' iconoclastic fury. He skins his figures in Arabic newspapers and hammered-flat tins of Iraqi foodstuffs, creating a poignant memory of lost culture.

"I was interested in making ghosts, not fakes," Rakowitz said.

London's lamassu is mostly comprised of date syrup cans, an iconic ingredient in Iraqi cooking and one that Rakowitz' grandparents .... who immigrated from Iraq to the United States ... used to import. Though modern politics mean he's never visited Iraq, he grew up highly influenced by the culture. Like the diaspora of so many nations, the taste and the smells of the family kitchen maintained the strongest link to a family's origins. (I get this: the oregano-laden mist of my mother's pasta sauce and the sweet crunch of cannoli preceded art or history in my awareness of Sicily. Food is as critical a piece of culture as great art or music; a truth that lies at the heart of this blog.) So the date syrup tins aren't just a clever way of colouring the sculpture, they plug directly into that sense of lost heritage that immigrant food celebrates all over the world.

There are harsher realities here than lost art and grandmother's kitchen, of course. These are symbols for lost lives and lost economies. Dates were a bedrock of the Iraqi economy, with groves of more than 30 million trees once supplying global markets. Now numbers have dropped to something like 3 million. So the lamassu's skin speaks of a collapsed economy. It stands looking south, toward parliament; it could shift its eyes left towards Iraq 3,200 miles beyond: a beguilingly beautiful reprimand to how quickly we forget.

While the Iraq war is over in the minds of most Americans and Brits, Rakowitz pointed out, it's still very much a live trauma for those on the ground. And for more than two million Iraqi refugees around the world who don't feel it's safe enough to go home. Estimates say that somewhere approaching a quarter of that number live in the UK. Scores turned up at the British Museum to see Michael and hear about his project, which clearly connected with their souls. The most touching moment came when a young woman born in Iraq but living in London for most of her life spoke with passion about how much this work meant to her, and of her fervent hope that it would spark awareness that could help young people like her get home. I was standing with her afterwards when we met Michael. She cried. Her mum cried. I suspect, down the road in Trafalgar Square, the lamassu cried.

Beauty and tragedy. Comfort and harsh truths. Protection and destruction. The London lamassu is a creature of contradictions. As Michael reminded the audience: "hospitality and hostility come from the same root word ... things are complicated."

You can see the lamassu at the northwest corner of Trafalgar Square for the next two years. Look on it and be amazed. But be thoughtful, as well. Like my friend at the Oriental Institute, this sculpture has lessons to teach.

Cast off for luxury with the V&A's lavish Ocean Liners show

Government policies have a way of triggering unexpected consequences.

In the 1920s the United States, worried by immigration, cut the flow by putting tight quotas in place. For almost 70 years, ocean liners had been making a tidy profit packing their ships out with third class and steerage passengers leaving Europe for a better life. When that market evaporated, they turned their attention to the wealthy. First class had always been there, of course. But from the '20s through the arrival of commercial air travel, all the effort went into enticing the upper crust to take, and enjoy, long sea journeys. Thus came the golden age of the great ocean liners.

And there's your explanation for why the Victoria and Albert's new show, Ocean Liners: Speed and Style, won't give you much about the experience my ancestors had crossing to America, or what it was like to work on these giants. This is a show about style and glamour, a reputation now so ingrained that even the cheapest and cheerfullest of today's cruise ships still play on it as they pack thousands on board. Our fantasies will always live in first class, however, and that's what the V&A delivers with its usual panache.

After a brief introduction and a bit on marketing ... including a fascinating and beautiful range of posters and brochures ... we dive into the interiors. The great ocean liners were, quite literally, flagships for their national reputations, attracting their best designers and often receiving government funds. From the first late 19th-century interiors on display we see distinctive national styles emerging. The Germans went for bold, showy nationalism. The French for royal opulence. (Yes, there's Louis XIV's sun king emblem wrought into the ironwork of The France) The Brits are more subtle, letting the internationalism of their style remind travellers of scope of empire: William de Morgan tiles evoking the paradise gardens, exotic mosques and palaces of Arabia; Chinese themed lounges with lacquer walls; marquetry panelling with an array of hard woods from British possessions in. From the inter-war years, both the Americans and the Italians start to show their flair for modernism.

Early ocean liners made their first class passengers feel at home with interiors similar to the chateaux and country houses they occupied on land. Beautiful, but derivative. A more distinctive style developed after World War I, when the need to replace ships destroyed when doing war service combined with the world's desire to embrace the new. Art Deco perfectly matched the brief, and perhaps found its greatest expression in the floating palaces of the inter-war years.

We're treated to chairs, carpets and decorative items from the Queen Mary, Britain's pinnacle of the style now preserved and moored permanently in Long Beach, California. The ship's Catholic altarpiece and Torah cabinet, displayed side-by-side and both given Art Deco interpretations, remind us how every aspect of life was catered for. It's all quite subtle compared to the French interpretation. The Normandie only operated for four years before it was commandeered as an American troop carrier and burned in New York harbour during its conversion. Luckily that was after its luxe interiors had been removed, so we're treated to a variety here including a towering metallic wall mural of exercising youths and a range of fixtures and fittings. If you missed the point of the opulence, a film capturing life on board drives it home. It makes the German artefacts nearby look dowdy in comparison, though you can indulge in the uncomfortable fascination of watching everyone fall all over themselves to delight Hitler as he toured their flagship entry into the liner race.

After a hiatus during World War II, when many liners were once again pressed into military service, the grand ships saw a final flowering. There's a room of gorgeous 1950s modernism, heavy on Italian contributions. Perhaps a hint towards why so many of today's ships are built in Italy? The labels don't say. My favourite item in the room, however, is a glass panel from the SS United States etched with waving coral to give you the illusion you were under the sea, matched with the clean lines of a glass and steel cocktail table. The ship's interiors were designed by an all-female firm;  given the 1951 date, I would have liked to have known more about those trend setters.

Up until this point the displays had all been lavish treats for the eyes, but I'd been disappointed by the traditional presentation. Unlike the V&A's outstanding Opera show late last year, there was no audio guide, no accompanying soundtrack and no innovative signage. All very old school. Turns out they were saving the fun for the massive, penultimate room of the exhibition.

After passing through a room on engineering ... interesting but seemed at odds with the design focus of the rest ... you emerge onto the promenade deck. The entire wall to your right has been turned into a single projection of a sunny seascape with a liner occasionally crossing it. Deck chairs and a frosted glass version of a pool are to your left, where stylised bathing beauties show off a history of swimwear to the occasional sound of splashing. Beyond, a double-height room stretches before you, dominated in the centre by tall screens showing gorgeous flappers and their escorts in white tie and tails striding down a "grande descente".  (The central staircase was considered an essential part of any grand liner, and still features on most modern cruise ships.)

The room around this showpiece is dedicated to life on board. While music of the Jazz Age plays, Normandie. With six options including a vegetarian regime for the pooch trying to watch its weight; though I think my boys would prefer Le Regal de Sweeney with viande hachee, carottes, epinards et toasts.

you get to wander through marvellous clothes, luggage, jewellery and a section dedicated to food on board. There's an exquisitely-beaded flapper-era dress here that proves clothing can be art, and a diamond tiara given added lustre by the story of its rescue by a diligent lady's maid as the ship went down. But surely the greatest testament to the luxury of a world gone by is the dog menu from the

The exhibition ends with a gallery devoted to ocean liners in the popular imagination. At its centre, "floating" on waves created by dappled light, is the largest single artefact ever recovered from the Titanic: an ornate piece of carved panelling from one of the first class lounges. And there, on a movie screen behind it, we see the scene from the eponymous film where Jack hauls Rose onto a piece of floating panelling to get her out of the freezing water. You may not like the film, but you have to give James Cameron credit for historical accuracy. The prop is an exact copy of the piece before you. Elsewhere in the gallery we're reminded of the design legacy ships left back on land, and see more clips of films set aboard. I thought The Love Boat was sadly lacking ... surely the biggest definer of the magic of cruising to my childhood imagination ... but sponsor Viking Cruises may have over-ridden the reference to competitor Princess Lines.

Corporate sponsorship rarely gets more appropriate than this pairing. I've admired Viking's marketing since I first ran into their costumed Norse raiders standing beside their sponsored garden at the Hampton Court Flower Show. As a company that targets affluent, mature adults and emphasises local culture as part of the experience, their association with museums and classical music around the world makes perfect sense. (In the same weekend I toured Ocean Liners in London, friends in New York were seeing a Viking-Sponsored Downton Abbey exhibition.) It seemed unfair that Viking's only tangible presence in the exhibition itself was a model of one of their ocean-going ships, with a label that gave a nod to their interior design but nothing further to show it.

As I've experienced myself, Viking is obsessed by design. Their ships are elegant fusions of modernity and tradition, filled with thoughtful design details drawn from their Scandinavian roots. An etched glass panel or elegant chair from one of their Winter Gardens (above), or even a series of fabric swatches and a few light fixtures, would have brought the design ethos celebrated in the show right up to the modern day. You may no longer pack your tiara, nor can you bring your dogs for their own menu, but the obsession with style and elegance explored in this show is still alive, well and floating on the high seas ... if you know where to look.

Shockingly relevant Caesar christens London's newest theatre

It's a generally-acknowledged fact that Shakespeare's plays transcend their original time period, but I've never seen the time shift done better than the production of Julius Caesar now running at London's Bridge Theatre.

It was clearly meant from its inception to be a blockbuster to lure audiences to London's newest venue. The cast is particularly starry. Ben Whishaw is a wistful, scholarly Brutus pushed against his will into doing the right thing. David Calder gives us an aging dictator in leather bomber jacket and red baseball cap emblazoned with "Caesar" in bold white letters; a none-to-subtle channelling of Donald Trump mobilising the mob. David Morrissey, fresh from playing the creepy, manipulative Roman commander in Britannia, gives a compellingly manipulative Marc Antony. And Michelle Fairley (most recognisable as Catelyn Stark in Game of Thrones) is brilliantly cast as Cassius. The gender bending ... Casca and Decius Brutus also appear as women ... gives a whole new and topical angle to the frustration of the conspirators as outsiders; you can interpret their frustration as that of intelligent women trying to crack through the glass ceiling of Caesar's inner circle.

The powerful performances from all of these familiar faces would have been enough to make this memorable. The creative staging made it remarkable.

The Roman mob is oft referred to in Shakespeare's text. Here, it's a very tangible additional character. This production is staged as theatre in the round, with 150 or 200 audience members standing on the floor. They're encouraged to play their part by theatre staffers mixed amongst them. We enter the theatre to a political rally in full swing. A band is playing hard-driving rally standards: Eye of the Tiger, We're Not Gonna Take It. Red flags with Ceasar's logo fly, vendors sell Caesar hats, the audience dances. Above, three circles of seats look down on the crowd; merely by our seats and our separation, we've become part of Brutus and Cassius' liberal elite, looking down on a populist uprising with vague discomfort.

It's brilliant theatre. And by plugging into current fears it has a visceral relevance. Later on, those same audience members are given Caesar posters to hold up at his funeral. We watch the tide turn on their faces as Brutus' carefully reasoned, fact-based, confident but uninspired address at first has them on side. Then their mood flips completely as Mark Antony's emotional appeal whips them into a fury. The Roman elite stand by in bewilderment, unable to understand how the people have been lured to support something so obviously against their own best interests. It's Brexit all over again.

The stage itself plays as much of a role as the crowd. It's comprised of big rectangles that can lift from slightly elevated to towering over the crowds' heads. The ground beneath us is shifting constantly, a metaphor for the politics on stage. It's particularly effective in Caesar's assassination scene, when levels ascend to him on a king-like throne, and in the final battle when the two sides are separated by a physical chasm between them.

Nicholas Hytner, the director of this production and one of the people behind The Bridge's creation, argued passionately that London didn't have a truly modern theatre space. This staging certainly validates his point. I was less enthused about the Bridge's public spaces. Considering that it's purpose-built and that pre-visit emails entice you to come early for an exiting variety of food and drink, I was shocked at some of the basic issues. There's just not enough room.

There's one main public space that functions as dining area, lounge, bar, box office and coat check area. It certainly looks cool and trendy: one long bar, a constellation of interesting light fixtures, a collection of small tables and breakfast-bar style perches. Arriving two full hours before the play, all available seats were already gone. By half an hour before curtain the pile-up at the bar was challenging. Exiting was a shoulder-to-shoulder scrum, as all members of the ground-floor mob were waiting in two sluggish queues that stretched all the way to the doors (they'd been forced to check everything before getting in). And this wasn't even a sell-out performance.

It's possible that these are just early teething pains, and the situation will certainly improve in the summer. There's a wide lawn in front of the theatre with a sweeping view of The Tower and Tower bridge; it's clear they plan for crowds to spill out here in good weather. But in the winter, it certainly seems like the facilities are inadequate for the performance space.

I'd definitely recommend seeing performances here, but go elsewhere for your pre-theatre libations. There's a new branch of The Ivy directly next door, which definitely requires advance booking but would certainly be the logical choice for dining. And, whatever you do, avoid checking anything.

Julius Caesar runs until 15 October. Can't get to London? There's a live broadcast to cinemas on 22 March. You won't see a better transposition of Shakespeare to the modern world. Book it!

Afghan treasures give the world another chance. Will we take it?

Since the turn of the century, the world has watched in helpless horror as forces beyond our control have destroyed priceless cultural heritage. The Bamiyan Buddhas. Palmyra. Nimrud. Surely, if another such disaster was on its way, and we had the power to stop it, the global community would step in to prevent more horror. Right?

Maybe not.

There's a remarkable place in the Afghan hills, near the border with Pakistan, called Mes Aynak. It was a cosmopolitan centre of trade and pilgrimage along the Silk Route ... like Petra or Palmyra ... run by Buddhist monks made fabulously wealthy by the vast deposits of copper below the city. The site dates back some 5000 years, reached the height of its prosperity between 600AD and 800AD, and covers an area roughly the same as Pompeii. It's barely been excavated, however, since it was lost to history for about 1000 years, then lost to the political misfortunes of Afghanistan since its rediscovery in the late 1970s.

Sadly, the copper that gave birth to the place may now be its executioner. A Chinese company owns the mining rights and plans to destroy Mes Aynak to cash in on a more lucrative jackpot than human history. And that's just the start of the place's problems. There's government corruption, a chronic lack of resources, infighting amongst foreign archeologists parachuting in and the Taliban threatening everyone with death and destruction. It's all captured with gripping drama by documentary filmmaker Brent E. Huffman in Saving Mes Aynak.

His ability to cram this into a film of just an hour is a marvel of storytelling. The fact that he shot all the footage himself, without a crew or protective security, over visits from 2011 to 2014, is a marvel of either bravery or foolhardy bravado. I'm not sure which. But I'm positive that makes him a worthy professor of documentary film making at Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism.

The Medill link is how I ended up at a private screening of, and discussion about, his film last night. (Our Northwestern Alumni Club has matured nicely in recent years, and there are a few young Medill stars working at CNBC and CNN who lean towards journalistically-flavoured events.) It reminded me of the soaring idealism of the whole journalistic profession in my post-Watergate youth, and how I went off to university quite sure my writing would do something noble for the world. I'm probably past that, but I can use it to encourage you to see this film ... which you can stream or download from channels listed here.

Watch Saving Mes Aynak if you love art history. The fusion of styles they're unearthing here ... Western Classical, Near Eastern, Chinese ... looks like nothing I've ever seen before. It's a beguiling reminder that Alexander the Great stranded thousands of Greeks here, and legend has them merging into the culture. Watching these temples and statues emerge from the dust is like discovering what became of that legendary world.

Watch it if you're interested in the growth of China and its partnerships in the developing world. Here's a textbook example: buying rights for what seems like a fortune to the local economy, but is a small fraction of the profit they'll make; promising jobs but delivering only menial ones, while Chinese expats do the professional roles. Seeming to do it all with admirably efficiency; Huffman said that since his filming they've even done a deal with the Taliban to get them on side.

Watch it if you live in a G7 economy, get frustrated with government and wonder what the hell those idiots are doing with your taxes. The Afghan government of this film is a textbook example of corruption. Both the Chinese investment and the international funds to support the Mes Aynak excavations never trickle down, while leaders build ever bigger mansions within their walled complexes. Not only does national heritage get tossed aside, but mining permissions get made without any consideration for the environmental effects likely to impact hundreds of villages in the area. Dignified, hard-working locals not only have no recourse for protection, but say with bitter resignation that if they complain, they'll be categorised as terrorists and enemies of the state. Most of us are blessed to live with government infrastructure built to prevent things like this. This comparison shows us why we should be thankful, and treasure it.

Watch it if you need a story of the triumph of the human spirit. Afghan archaeologist Qadir Temori is a hero worthy of great fiction. Soulful and determined. Risking his life daily for a greater cause. The little guy caught in a crushing system but fighting on. The underdog, reminding us all of the wonders of his culture and breaking crude stereotypes. (One bit of good news: Huffman says he's been promoted since the film's release and is now a much-respected authority.) If you loved The Monuments Men ... the book, not the tragic film adaptation ... you'll love this documentary. It's the same battle to preserve the soul of mankind, shifted to one of the cradles of our civilisation.

Watch it. Then spread the news on social media. Tag organisations that would proactively care about saving the site ... or at least who want to avoid the bad PR that would come with its destruction.

Huffman's film has been at the heart of a steady, heartfelt advocacy campaign. Almost four years on, Mes Aynak still stands. No doubt partially because of this film. But the fact that copper prices have been unusually low is probably a factor, too. As those prices start to rise ... as they are doing ... Chinese patience will stretch.

Whether it's preserved in situ ... or simply bought enough time for experts to find, understand and rescue its treasures ... saving Mes Aynak gives the world a chance to do penance for Bamiyan, Palmyra and Nimrud. I hope we take it.

13 sightseeing bargains in London

The prolonged weakness of the pound against the dollar is clearly having an effect: I've heard from more American acquaintances scheduled to visit London this year than in the past four put together.

London is still bracingly expensive for most visitors, however, so everyone is on the lookout for inexpensive sightseeing options. This normally means museums: we have extraordinary collections and, unlike the rest of Europe, they're almost all free. But what if you're not a museum person? If a big of culture is fine, but too much is no fun? Here are 13 options that are either free, or under a tenner, in the English capital.

ONE: MUSEUM DINING ROOMS

Let's start with museums, but not for the reason you think. A handful of our great institutions also have some of the best bars and dining rooms in London; they can be great places to dine with ceremony at a reasonable cost. I have three favourites. The dining rooms at the Victoria and Albert Museum were purpose built to go along with the building and are masterpieces of Edwardian splendour. And their cafeteria-style food isn't bad. Tate Modern's bar and restaurant in the original building, not the new extension, has stunning views over the Thames to St. Paul's Cathedral. Food's a bit expensive for what you get but if you can linger over a drink it's tremendous value. The Portrait Restaurant at the National Portrait Gallery has a unique view over the roof to Trafalgar Square. This is getting pricey, but they often have packages ... especially if you dine early.

TWO: THE MITHRAEUM

I haven't been here yet, but you can descend to the basement of the new Bloomberg HQ building to see the remains of a Roman temple and other artefacts from Roman London. This is the result of a recent dig when they tore an old building down to erect the new. The marshy riverbed below preserved things exceptionally. It's supposed to be fascinating, and is free ... you just need to reserve a place. https://www.londonmithraeum.com/

THREE: A RICH AMERICAN'S OFFICE

When William Waldorf Astor moved to London he "went native" by building a Thames-side estate Three and Four Musketeers, his favourite books. It's now the HQ of a charity and only open a few months early in each year for special exhibitions. Free. (The 2018 show is on the Jazz Age.) You don't have to do the "museum-y" bit, though. You can just turn up and wander around the building, which may look familiar from its regular use in television drama. It most famously appeared as the venue for Lady Rose's wedding in Downton Abbey. https://twotempleplace.org/

office that was completely over-the-top in its traditional European architecture. It's a very personal building designed to his specifications. The main stair, for example, is decorated with hand-carved figures from the

FOUR: THE SKY GARDEN (top photo)

In order to get planning permission these days, builders need to give something back to the general public. 20 Fenchurch Street in The City (known to locals as "the walkie talkie) did this by turning its top four floors into an enormous conservatory. The "Sky Garden" features temperate tropical plants on a series of terraces. The low point overlooking the Thames has an observatory deck, and there are great views of London as you go around the whole thing. There's a bar on the main floor and two restaurants rising through the terraces in the centre (both good but expensive). It's free to get into the garden but you must book in advance, bring proof of your reservation and have ID.  https://skygarden.london/

FIVE: THE OLYMPIC PARK

London is full of magnificent parks and gardens. St. James' park is probably the most picturesque, Hyde Park has the most elements inside it (like Central Park in New York City). But if you want to try something quirkier, why not hop the Jubilee Line down to the Olympic Park? They've taken the landscaping very seriously and the architecture of the sports venues is impressive. It may also be interesting for a tourist, who's usually immersed in olde worlde London, to see a part of town that's entirely modern. This part of East London was redeveloped for the Olympics and is now a cluster of gleaming towers around a massive mall and entertainment complex. Free to wander around, though there are some attractions that charge to get in. http://www.queenelizabetholympicpark.co.uk/

SIX: RIVER TRAVEL

Everyone should see London from the river, its lifeline for so much of its history. The typical tourist jaunt involves booking a return journey to Greenwich from Westminster Pier. Greenwich is a great day out and there's lots to see between the museums and a charming town centre. But there are cheaper options for getting onto the river. The Tate to Tate boat takes visitors from Tate Britain to Tate Modern for about £5. http://www.tate.org.uk/visit/tate-boat Transport for London also runs river buses; these are not included in your travel card but it does give you a discount which brings their fares down to a few pounds https://tfl.gov.uk/modes/river/about-river-bus

SEVEN: THE GLOBE THEATRE

One of the pricier things on my list! You'll need £10 per person to tour the Globe theatre complex, which includes the main stage (a copy of Shakespeare's own theatre, open air, built with traditional craftsmanship; the Wanamaker (indoor, intimate, candlelit Jacobean theatre in reproduction) and a very good Shakespeare exhibit that's as much about the phenomenon of Shakespeare and the theatre project as it is about the Bard and his work. Definitely check the web site first, though, because they close parts depending on what's in rehearsal. http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/ Productions tend to sell out well in advance, especially in the Wannamaker, but being a groundling in the pits can cost as little as £5. Which means that if you're not into the full production, you can have the experience and slip away when you've lost interest.

EIGHT: LONDON WALKS

Another £10 splurge! You can find lots of walking tours in London these days but London Walks are the original and the best. They're led by fabulously informed guides on all topics, usually either actors or academics who do this to bring in some extra cash. And because they love it. Everyone flocks to Jack the Ripper but I'd recommend Legal London, Mayfair and any of their pub crawls. You just turn up at the right meeting point, hand over your cash and go. http://www.walks.com/

NINE: PUBS

Speaking of pubs ... pubs are as much a part of the historic fabric of London as cathedrals, museums and palaces. Do a bit of internet research and you'll find scores of "best of" lists. Everyone has their favourites. Mine include, for professional reasons, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese (it's a dive, but Johnson, Boswell, Addison and Steele drank here; it's the world's first journalists' bar); The Black Friar (art nouveau masterpiece on the theme of monks making wine); Cittie of Yorke (late Victorians' idea of what a medieval pub would have looked like, like the set of an Errol Film flick); The Grenadier (former army officers' mess tucked away in Belgravia in some of the priciest real estate in London, stay late and look in windows on your way home for a view of how the 1% live); The Viaduct (proper Victorian gin palace with lots of brass and smoked glass). Note that while pubs have upped their game on the food stakes, the most picturesque ones often don't make an effort on the food front ... because they don't need to. They'll do fine burgers, chilli, pies, etc. for a reasonable price. "Gastropubs" are all about the food. Many are delicious (The Orange on Pimlico Road is a favourite) but you'll easily push past £50 for a 3-course meal and some drinks.

TEN: THE CITY

The City of London is just a square mile, home to so much history, but few tourists spend much time here after checking out St. Paul’s and the Tower. It’s a great place to wander. Gorgeous Wren churches, the Museum of London (free, fun), Leadenhall Market (Victorian wonder, now mostly restaurants), lots of great Victorian pubs. All the history is wedged in between modern spikes of steel and glass. You’ll have little tourism competition and there’s not even much road traffic. Just lots of office workers. Cross over London Bridge to Southwark to wander through Borough Market, in the shadow of Southwark Cathedral. It's London's best food market, filled with artisan producers, high-end fruit and veg vendors and an ever-changing glory of food trucks and stalls.

ELEVEN: MAYFAIR & ST. JAMES SHOPS

Go window shopping. Luxury brands and galleries cluster around Bond Street. Burlington Arcade is arguably the world’s first covered shopping mall. I like Princes Arcade across the street, where gentlemen have been buying their accessories since Beau Brummell’s time. This is where you can still get dressing gowns like Lord Grantham’s or “smoking hats” like Oscar Wilde’s. My husband will spend thousands at Budd here when we win the lottery. Jermyn Street and the street’s behind it ... now you’re in St. James’ ... are where English society has been procuring the finer things for centuries. Don’t miss Berry Brothers and Rudd, wine sellers to the Crown since the 17th century with a gorgeous historic shop and, believe it or not, decent prices on nice wines. (They played a major role in the last Kingsmen film, which everyone here finds a grand joke.)

TWELVE: HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT

If you book in advance (at least two months to be safe), you can get a free tour of the Houses of Parliament https://www.parliament.uk/visiting/ Amazing building: medieval great hall, the rest is Victorian. Group tours with informed guides mix history with the workings of modern government. This is particularly interesting if you’ve done Washington DC, to see how the American system compares to its governmental mother. It's been much in the news lately that the whole place is in precarious shape; it will soon be closed down for an enormous refurbishment. So book while you can.

THIRTEEN: CHANGING GUARDS

If you want to see a changing of the guard, my personal choice would be to head to Horseguards (11 am Monday - Saturday, 10 am on Sundays) rather than Buckingham Palace nearby. Equally showy uniforms, but on horses and with fewer tourists. Buckingham Palace's changing is also at 11am, though conventional wisdom says be in place in front of palace by 10:15 if you want to see anything. There, they march up and down, have bearskin hats and play musical instruments. I like the horses better. Always check web sites for either as these can change with Royal or diplomatic schedules.

Reunion of Charles I's collection is a once-in-a-lifetime wonder

Art and monarchy haven't been happy bedfellows in England. Quite the opposite. Our greatest royal
patrons have often come to sticky ends.

Richard II brought the courtly majesty of the international gothic style to England, pouring money into buildings, art and jewellery while setting fashions that would last centuries. Little is left beyond Westminster Hall and the exquisite Wilton Diptych in the National Gallery. Richard himself died in captivity after alienating everyone and triggering a palace coup. George IV literally defined the Regency era, stamping his architectural style across London, restoring palaces to give us most of the interiors we know today and leaving the wonder of Brighton's Royal Pavilion. He was widely reviled at his death. But no monarch pushed the extremes harder than Charles I. The cause of a bloody civil war, branded a traitor and beheaded by his own parliament, he was also the single greatest connoisseur of art ever to sit on this nation's throne.

The Royal Academy's special exhibition is now proving that point with jaw-dropping exuberance. For the first time since 1649, when the culture-hating Roundheads established the Protectorate and flogged off the collection, 140 masterpieces from Charles' precious collection are hanging again under one roof. It is a lavish Old Masters collection that rivals many major museums. It also tells some fascinating stories.

First, that Charles was a revolutionary. England at the time was an artistic backwater. The iconoclasts of Edward VIs reign had whitewashed the churches and destroyed a rich legacy of religious art. In the years that followed, the English displayed a notable talent for wood carving, plasterwork and floral-patterned fabrics, but painting was mostly limited to portraits of stiff nobles in heavy costumes. Into this world Charles brought the second century life-sized Roman statue of the crouching Venus, actually drawing attention to her lush naked curves with her coy attempts to cover herself. Behind her at this show hangs Rubens' larger-than-life painting "Minerva protects Pax from Mars".  More lush, exposed flesh, in a scene of movement and dynamism: armour glints, silks and satins billow, putti prance and a leopard gambols. It's safe to say that people who hadn't left England (which would have been most) would never have seen anything like it. And that anyone who'd been influenced by the buttoned-up conservatism of the Puritans would have been deeply shocked. Charles didn't evolve artistic taste, he dropped a whole new tradition into alien territory.

Second, that Charles had astonishing taste and bought well. If only he could have run his country with the same savvy. As a young man he travelled to Spain to woo a Habsburg bride. He was unsuccessful in love, but the Spanish royal family's art collection inspired him to shop. The gallery filled with his early acquisitions, including some notable Titians, shows off a sure eye for masterpieces from the start. Later, he capitalised on the decline of the noble Italian Gonzaga family, buying as a whole a collection they'd amassed over generations. He looked beyond the continental fashion for the Italians, however, seeing quiet beauty in Bruegel and Rembrandt, and beefing up the family's existing collection of Holbeins. He commissioned new works from Rubens and Van Dyck. He supported the Mortlake Tapestry works in their (ultimately unsuccessful) bid to become an English rival to Savonnieres or Gobelin.

One of Charles' early bargains, when still prince of Wales, had been to pick up Raphael's true-size working drawings for the tapestries then hanging in the Sistine Chapel. Charles then loaned them to Mortlake to create English-produced versions. The results (four from a set of 10) hang here, liberated from storage in the Louvre. Any visitor to the V&A has probably walked by Raphael's drawings, which are undeniably impressive. But the finished products here are awe-inspiring. They take a bit of imagination, given that their gold and silver threads have faded and tarnished, but other colours are still remarkably bright. The movement within the scenes (all taken from the lives of the St. Peter), the life in the faces and the lavish details woven into the borders are all remarkable. It's a real treat to see these, and one of the highlights of the show.

Another is to see three of Van Dyck's monumental portraits of the king in one place. This is a story of rigorous image management; Van Dyck is arguably one of the world's first great PR men. His work transforms Charles from a slight, weak, tentative man into a heroic military leader on horseback (one from Buckingham Palace, one from the National Gallery) and a thoughtful romantic hero captured while hunting (from the Louvre). It's the Louvre's version I like best, and it's a delight to see it here. The adjoining gallery is filled with more family portraiture. Here the Stuarts are a dreamily-gorgeous family in lavish settings, wearing sumptuous clothes, accompanied by majestic horses and adorable dogs. If Hello Magazine had been available to get these images to the wider populous, it might have saved them.

The tale of commerce and dispersal is another fascinating theme to follow. The Parliamentarians might have been artistic Philistines, but they were keen record keepers. They had decided to flog off all of Charles' possessions within two days of taking over. They appraised and catalogued over 5000 items, from art to dog collars and chamber pots, then recorded sale prices. (To be fair, nearly a decade of Civil War had beggared the country; liquidating the royal loot was a way to recoup some losses.) Today's curators have put those sale prices on labels throughout the show. It's great fun to go shopping, compare values and consider changes in taste. Portraiture from Northern artists was a bargain, for example: you could have had 20 for the price of that one crouching Venus. It's also fascinating to see where things went. Loans from the Louvre, the Prado and the Vatican demonstrate that the misfortune of one ruling family aided the collections of others. Around 60% of the items come from our own Royal Collection, testimony to the fact that successive generations worked hard to recover what was lost. Or to re-create. One of the Van Dyck portraits here recorded the crown jewels before Parliament melted them down, becoming a critical guide when they had to be recreated.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. There are 140 works here (mind-bogglingly, that's still just a bit more than 10% of the works of art that Parliament sold off), and they all deserve contemplation. Other favourites of mine included the famous triple portrait of Charles displayed with a copy of the marble bust for which it was the source material (the Bernini original was destroyed in the Whitehall Palace fire of 1698); Mantegna's enormous series of paintings showing the Triumph of Caesar (usually in its own gallery at Hampton Court, which many visitors miss); an astonishing oversized Roman cameo of the emperor Claudius, displayed so you can look at it side-on and see how the layers of stone have been cut away to create multiple colours; Italian Renaissance bronzes and some exquisitely detailed Nicholas Hilliard miniatures of the Tudors.

The size of the show is, frankly, overwhelming. We had 90 minutes before the gallery closed and felt rushed. I'd recommend a two-hour minimum or, if you can manage it, two visits. That's what I'll be trying to arrange, if I can work it into the diary before the exhibition closes on 15 April.

And if you want to continue the story, you can buy a combined ticket for the Queen's Gallery to see the show there that explores how Charles II started bringing his father's collection back together and used the power of art to restore the monarchy. I reviewed the show here.

Snowdrop festivals herald the English spring

Winter is grey and depressing in England, but it's blessedly short. By mid-February the days are getting noticeably longer and early bulbs are flowering in profusion.

This weekend was, according to horticultural experts, the height snowdrop season. Hundreds of private gardens up and down the country opened as part of the National Gardens Scheme Snowdrop Festival, while most National Trust properties and major gardens were packed with visitors. The English love snowdrops ... and the excuse to get outside in the improving weather.

I didn't have to drive far to revel in garden glories; North Hampshire has abundant snowdrop possibilities and gorgeous drives between each. I started out at Mottisfont Abbey, a National Trust property better known for the roses in its walled garden in May. But walking around the property in November has its own rewards.

The crystal-clear River Test flows through the property, and the woodland on either side is carpeted with snowdrops.

Ten minutes away are the Harold Hillier Gardens, given to Hampshire County Council by the famous nursery and plant-growing family who are perennial exhibitors at Chelsea. The winter garden here is considered one of the best in the county, showing off how various colours of foliage, bark and winter-blooming flowers can put on a display just as impressive as anything in high summer.

There are plenty of snowdrops here, of course, along with that other staple of the mid-February garden: hellebores.

The most amazing display, however, may have been that put on by the cornus (dogwood). In the standing light of late afternoon sun, the red and orange branches blazed like a bonfire.

Hillier helpfully signposts plants of interest throughout the property. Beyond the specific winter garden, there were broad swathes of crocuses in bloom, beds of iris and a plenty of camellias coming into bloom. And with the trees free of leaves, their trunks put on a display of pattern in bark, moss and lichen.

Sunday I took in a triple play of National Garden Society gardens running in a line west from Winchester. The NGS is a wonderful scheme in which private gardens open for charity. They're vetted by judges before they're allowed in the scheme, must offer basic amenities to visitors and are generally a wonderfully acceptable way to be a voyeur. Most of these properties are well worth poking around. And fantasising about. That's certainly true of Down House, a rambling, tile-shingled house surrounded by vineyards overlooking the River Itchen.

I'd visited here in the autumn, when the formal gardens behind the house are a blaze of colour. But at this time of the year it's all about a woodland garden to one side, carpeted with crocus.

There are snowdrops, of course, along with some early-blooming shrubs.

On to the impossibly pretty little town of Alresford, where if you get lucky you may see the steam train chug by on the Watercress Line on your way to your garden visit.

Brandy Mount House sits just above a main street that hasn't changed much since Jane Austen last passed through. (She lived nearby.)

This isn't a particularly large garden ... none of its edges are any further than an easy stone's throw back to the main house ... but the beds, stone troughs and greenhouses were packed with snowdrops.

This was clearly, amongst all the gardens I visited, the one where the owners were going for variety of species.

There's also a small pond surrounded by ferns, snowdrops, hellebores and dogwood.

My final visit was to Bramdean House. If Alresford feels like Jane Austen should still be walking its streets, Bramdean is the kind of place her heroines would have headed to for a ball. It is the kind of mellow Georgian pile, fronted by wobbly yew hedges and backed by formal lawns sloping up to open countryside, that fuels many an architectural fantasy.

The gardens here are actually quite simple, benefiting from the weathered patina brick walls only get after a century or two.

The gates you see above lead into an orchard heavily underplanted with snowdrops, aconites and crocuses. The grass path leads through a hedge fancifully clipped as round castle walls, up to a garden folly that has the look of a temple. On either side, hurdle walls separate the greenery of the garden from the winter browns of the fields beyond.

While the central axis leading up the hill from the house was quite formal, winding paths down one side cut through a woodland garden, complete with this thatched retreat and more bulbs.

My own garden is still mostly asleep, with just one bunch of hellebores, a single clump of snowdrops and a spray of purple crocuses. While I'll never get to NGS level, it's clear. I need to work on more February interest. One thing's for sure: gardening season is almost here.