The lure of St James's

Spectator

a day ago

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. However, I was particularly interested in Harry's Roger Frys. Fry, though no genius, was a serious painter who ought to be re-evaluated.
Harry's walls offer much to enjoy, much to think about, much to covet, and after those pleasures, you are no distance from food and drink.
Later on, our conversation moved on to another art form: winemaking. A friend had just come back from South Africa and was able to bring some good news from that benighted land. Since the passing of the old regime, the wine industry has flourished. Foreign markets are much easier, and there has been a lot of investment. It remains to be seen whether all this will continue to flourish as so much of that potentially glorious country succumbs to chaos.
His Lordship would send someone across with
his form of booking:
a bottle of Château Lafite
We heard one depressing non-economic story. Alan Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country is much the finest literary work to come from South Africa. Everyone ought to read it. But a (white) youngster, educated at a good South African private school, had never even heard of it. Cry, indeed.
South Africa has produced fine wine for centuries. But today the vineyards have spread outwards from the Stellenbosch region, especially to Swartland, which I have never visited. I am told that the winemakers are optimistic. Theirs is, of course, an optimistic profession. But let us hope they are right.
The theme broadened to wine and war. During both world wars the French made remarkable quantities of wine, some of it excellent. Then again, for the poilus, wine was the equivalent of grog for the Royal Navy. If wine had not been available, the mutinies would have been much worse. Even so, miracles were achieved. I remember Alan Clark – no pub that day – treating David Owen and me to a bottle of 1916 La Mission Haut-Brion (in the Diaries, he says 'Latour' but I trust my own memory). Those grapes were ripening during the Somme. The grapes of wrath can produce great wine.