Procrastination may be the thief of time, but in the right circumstances, it can be fun. The other day, I was enjoying myself in St James’s, my favourite London arrondissement. There are delightful contrasts, from the grandeur of the royal palaces and the St James’s Street clubs to the charming, intimate side streets and alleys with their pubs and restaurants.
The late Jacob Rothschild would often cross from his palatial office in Spencer House to Crown Passage, in order to lunch at Il Vicolo (regularly praised here). His Lordship never bothered to reserve a table. Instead, he would send someone across with his form of booking: a bottle of Château Lafite. Crown Passage is also home to the Red Lion, one of the oldest hostelries in London. It has excellent beer, no music and no teenagers. One grows curmudgeonly with age.
Though I never thought of Alan Clark as a pub habitué, he did visit the Red Lion, where he was indeed an egregious figure – to employ correctly just about the most misused adjective in current English. But he always seemed to enjoy himself: a change from Brooks’s, perhaps.
St James’s is also full of art galleries and someone then said that there was an interesting exhibition round the corner in Mason’s Yard. We went and were not disappointed. Harry Moore-Gwyn specialises in British art from the late 19th century onwards. His current offerings are all easily worth a visit.
There are renowned names: Gwen John, Walter Sickert, Charles Rennie Mackintosh et al. But there were other figures whom I had never come across (so much the worse for me) such as Herbert Dalziel.
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