At least my ninth visit to Venice but my first in January. Among the advantages at this time of year are clear skies and a low sun, creating a coruscating light show on the canals, and the absence of crowds.
This homage to The Italian Job was part of the New Year’s Day Parade yesterday. But I was on my way to the Austrian job executed by Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele at the Royal Academy.
The concept is that the Lost Treasures of Strawberry Hill have been temporarily returned for a once-in-a-lifetime experience but like the curate’s egg it is only good in parts.
Tomorrow I’m going to Strawberry Hill where some of Horace Walpole’s collection, dispersed at a sale in 1842, has come home from America. Yesterday I saw an exhibition not seen since 1919.
My grandfather was shot through the back of his neck by a sniper at the Somme. He was fortunate not to bleed to death. Three other Bellews died and have no graves.
Sated with opera and black pudding we drove up the M11 to Dublin on Monday morning. Six of us in a hire car with our bags is cosy and, sportingly, the General took the rear gunner’s seat at the back. We met the Judge and Mr and Mrs Dog Lover for lunch at the Merrion.
The application (see Wind in the Willows) by developer, St George, to fell the willow tree in front of their flats at Fulham Reach was withdrawn. There was much opposition including a well-reasoned submission by a reader here, who knows more about trees than I do.
After Choral Matins at the Royal Hospital we walked in the rain to pay our respects to Sir Denis and Lady Thatcher, both of whom have memorials outside the Margaret Thatcher Infirmary, where their ashes are buried.
Given the choice I suppose most of us would choose Do-rich over Do-poor and I did so on a sunny morning last week. The Dorich in question is the Dorich House Museum in Kingston.