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Episode One – Setting Forth

The Grand Tour was the principally 17th and 18th century custom of travelling through Europe, often with Italy as the primary destination. It was undertaken by young men of sufficient means and rank, usually accompanied by a tutor or family member when they reached the age of 21.

By the mid-18th century, the Grand Tour had become a regular feature of aristocratic education although it was generally restricted to the higher nobility. To make it, one needed a passport. From 1778, these were written in French and had to be personally signed by the king. After 1794, they were signed by the Secretary of State.  During the 18th century, British passports were mainly for diplomats, officials or merchants. Only the affluent tourist was able to obtain a passport costing some 6 pounds, seven and six.

The main value of the Tour was exposure to culture as well as to aristocratic and fashionable society of Europe. It also provided a chance to view specific works of art or to hear  certain music.

Lord Fleet’s tour began at Dover – since the first stage of his journey was crossing the channel to either Calais of Boulogne.  These days, ferries cross from Dover to Calais in 90 minutes.  In the 18th century, if the sea was rough, it could take as much as 36 hours in cramped and far from comfortable conditions.  Rockliffe, of course, would have made the crossing in his father’s yacht, the Boreas.

The cost from Dover to Paris – half a Guinea for Gentlemen and 5 shillings per servant and attendant.

Thomas Nugent’s The Grand Tour, published in 1774, was the first detailed guidebook for English gentlemen wanting to go on the Grand Tour of Europe.

Once in France, his lordship’s luggage would be searched by customs officials.  This happened in every country he visited.  In what is now Italy but was then a collection of principalities, it happened at every border.

Continental roads weren’t as good as the ones in England and were often impassable in bad weather.  Rockliffe would have travelled with his own carriage and servants; the less well-heeled had to use public transport.  The average distance anyone might travel in a day was somewhere between 15 and 20 miles.

Travellers not wishing to encumber themselves with a great deal of luggage en route to Paris could send it by the twice-weekly stage-coach from Calais.  This took several days to get there, the fare being thirty livres per passenger, and three sous per pound for baggage.

So … aside from the usual sort of luggage, what else did Lord Fleet take with him?  Well, he’d need his own medicine chest.  Pistols in case he was attacked en route. A telescope, a travelling clock and of course Nugent’s Grand Tour.  He’d probably also hire a French-speaking guide.

Thus equipped, his lordship made his way to Paris.  At the various stops along the way, he probably encountered poor food, surly innkeepers and damp sheets. 

But once in Paris, he would immediately order a new wardrobe of clothes – and possibly also a new carriage, if he hadn’t brought his own with him. Then he remained there, perfecting his French and practising his dancing, fencing and riding, whilst absorbing the behaviour, fashion and manners of high society – all which would be useful to a gentleman with diplomatic ambitions.

Guide-book in hand, he would visit Notre Dame, the Palais Royal (home of the Duc d’Orléans and his vast collection of art), the Louvre, the gardens of the Tuileries and, almost certainly at some point, the magnificent palace of Versailles.

When the time came to quit Paris, the gentleman who didn’t have his own carriage would travel by French Diligence – a kind of stage-coach but one which travels at a greater speed. It was used for travelling from Paris to major cities such as Lyons, Brussels, Marseilles and had fixed prices. The onward route to Italy lay through either Marseilles or Geneva. The first risked falling into the hands of the Barbary pirates … the second meant braving the Alps. Which to choose?

See the next instalment!



Episode Two – Onward to Italy

We left his lordship deciding how to travel from France to Italy.  He had two choices; by sea from Marseilles and risk encountering the Barbary Pirates or by road and face the perils of the Alpine crossing.  If you’ve read The Montesoro Legacy, you already know something about making the journey by sea … so let’s send Lord Fleet by the overland route.

From Paris, he’d head for Switzerland, probably spending a week or two in Geneva.  Then on towards the Mont Cenis Pass near Val d’Isère … where, for a time at least, his travels promptly became less enjoyable.  In order to cross the Alps, carriages and items of large luggage had to be dismantled.  Everything would then be transported by mule train along the mountain paths.  Lord Fleet himself could (and probably would) be carried in a sort of sedan chair, strapped to poles and borne by porters.

But if the journey to the summit was time-consuming and arduous, the downward trip on the other side was frankly terrifying. His lordship would go hurtling down to Piedmont in what was basically a sort of sled.  If all went well, he and his servants would arrive in Turn with all their limbs intact; if not … well, the possibilities don’t bear thinking about.

But with the Alps safely behind him, Lord Fleet would quit Turin and set out for the four cities he’d come to Italy to visit.  Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples.

Venice, of course, was famous for two things. Its Carnival and its Courtesans.   The Carnival often went on from Boxing Day to Shrove Tuesday; a continuous round of masquerades, fireworks, opera and dalliances.   Lord Fleet – young, male and free from family restrictions – would doubtless plunge headlong into all of these and might continue enjoying Venice for several months.

As for the Venetian Courtesans, it should be stressed that they weren’t merely high-class prostitutes.  They were elegant, cultured and educated and capable of providing intellectual companionship.  They chose their ‘clients’ with care and weren’t available to just anyone.

But Lord Fleet would find all Italian ladies very different in dress and manners to their English sisters and might have recorded in his diary that “I have seen more handsome women in one day than ever in my life – Venetian dress being so very flattering.” 

But eventually Lord Fleet would have to tear himself away from the seductive (and exhausting) pleasures of Venice and travel on to Florence.  There, he would devote himself to the pursuit of Art, visiting galleries, churches and palaces – anywhere paintings and sculptures were exhibited.  He would also begin collecting souvenirs – often, copies of famous works of art which could be crated up and sent home.

But the absolute must-see in Florence was the Uffizi Gallery.  It was the world’s first modern museum and it contained the art collection of the Medici, gathered from the time the family first became prominent in the early 15th century.  Originally, the gallery could only be visited by prior appointment but in 1765 it was officially opened to the public.  The Tribuna  of the Uffizi became a meeting place for British tourists who fancied themselves art connoisseurs.  They met and drank tea surrounded by a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall exhibition of paintings.

After Florence, the next stop was Rome … and we’ll re-join Lord Fleet there in the final episode..


Investigating the origins of London’s three oldest theatres … Part Two.

The Theatre Royal, Covent Garden


In 1728, John Rich, actor-manager of the Duke’s Company, commissioned The Beggar’s Opera from John Gay. The success of this provided sufficient capital to build the Theatre Royal at the site of an ancient convent garden – part of which had been developed by Inigo Jones in the 1630s with a piazza and church. The theatre opened on December 7th 1732 with a production of The Way of the World by William Congreve.

During the first hundred years of its history, the theatre was primarily a playhouse, with the Letters Patent granted by Charles II giving Covent Garden and Drury Lane exclusive rights to present spoken drama in London. Despite actors crossing to and fro between theatres, rivalry between the Garden and the Lane was intense.  The two companies often presented the same plays at the same time!

In 1734, Covent Garden presented its first ballet, Pygmalion. Marie Sallé shockingly discarded tradition and her corset and danced in diaphanous robes! George Frederic Handel was named musical director of the company and there was a royal performance of Messiah in 1743, which was a huge success.

David Garrick appeared at Covent Garden in 1746 and a new invention called the fortepiano was first heard there in 1767.  She Stoops To Conquer had its first performance in 1773, and Sheridan’s The Rivals was premiered in 1775.


The theatre was remodelled in 1782 and again in 1792 – almost completely this time – at a cost of £25,000. It re-opened in September 1792 but was sadly destined to have a short life.  On September 20th 1808 the Theatre Royal burned down, taking with it Handel’s own organ and many of his many manuscripts with it.

It was rebuilt in 1808 and re-opened under the auspices of John Philip Kemble.  For the next twenty-five years, many great names appeared here; Sarah Siddons, Edmund Kean and the clown, Grimaldi (to name but three).  But the theatre was once again destroyed by fire in 1856 and once again rebuilt.

In 1892, the Theatre Royal Covent Garden became the Royal Opera House – and remains so to this day.


Origins of London’s oldest theatres – Part One

The Theatre Royal Drury Lane, is the oldest London theatre still in use.

The first theatre was built by Thomas Killigrew for his company of actors under a charter from Charles II. It opened on May 7th, 1663, and it staged plays by John Dryden and other Restoration dramatists. It was closed in 1665–66 due to the plague and seems to have survived the Great Fire only to be burned down in 1672.  Rebuilt on its present site in Drury Lane in 1674 (its probable architect being Sir Christopher Wren) the second Theatre Royal was to feature the works of William Congreve.

Drury Lane enjoyed one of its finest periods between 1710 and 1733 under the control of actor-playwright Colley Cibber, comedian Robert Wilks and character actor Thomas Doggett. It then fell into the spendthrift hands of Charles Fleetwood, whose mismanagement almost brought it to ruin. Fortunately, David Garrick rescued it in1747 and the theatre re-opened with a brilliant new troupe, a more natural style of acting and superior Shakespearean texts. Garrick upheld these high standards for the next 30 years before eventually selling the theatre to Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Under Sheridan’s management (1776–88) The School for Scandal had its first performance – attended by Sebastian Audley and Cassie Delahaye  in The Wicked Cousin.

Some of the most famous performances were those given by Sarah Siddons as Lady Macbeth and John Philip Kemble as Hamlet.

The second theatre was demolished in 1791.  The new supposedly “fireproof” theatre, built between 1791–94 burned down in 1809 and a brand new theatre was built.  It opened in 1812 – and is still there today.

Coming soon … the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden

Stella meets the real life Julian Langham in Paris 2019

Click on the following link to open –  https://youtu.be/99lT1WQLMGw


Join the celebration of  CADENZA’S BIRTHDAY  here.
Click on the harpsichord to drop into Wynstanton House for a short taste of Julian’s debut recital.
Hope you enjoy it!



Julian Langham’s London debut concert


Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart 

Piano Concerto in E flat major (K 271)


Johann Sebastian Bach 

Fantasia in C minor  (BWV 906)
French Suite No 4 in E flat major, Allemande  (BWV 815)
Italian Concerto, Allegro  (BWV 971)

 Jean-Philippe Rameau   

Les Niais de Sologne
Les Sauvages

 Johann Christian Bach 

Harpsichord Concerto in F minor, Andante  (W C73)
Arranged for solo harpsichord, J. Langham

 Domenico Scarlatti  

Sonata in D minor  (K 141)
Sonata in A major   (K 208)

 Joseph-Nicholas-Pancrace Royer 

La Marche des Scythes
Le Vertigo

The concert isn’t as long as you might think – just over 80 minutes in all.

I’ve included the catalogue numbers where possible for those interested in listening to the pieces on YouTube.  Virtually all of them can be found there – many, such as the Scarlatti sonatas and both Royer pieces,  played by wonderful Jean Rondeau.  The Bach Fantasia, of course, is here in the next post.
However, since  (oddly enough!)  Julian’s solo arrangement isn’t available, you can only hear the Johann Christian Bach Andante in its ensemble form … but try it anyway.  You won’t be disappointed!


Getting to know Julian Langham … a brief moment from Chapter 2

Dread paralysed him. For twenty years, he had practised for five hours a day – often more.  He had no idea how even a week without playing a note could impair his ability – let alone six months.  He’d told Paul he couldn’t play in front of anyone; but that wasn’t the problem.  What was stopping him now was the mind-numbing possibility that he wouldn’t be able to play at all.
Sweat crawled between his shoulder-blades.  He thought, I have to face this.  I have to get past it.  If I don’t … if I can’t …
He shut his eyes, lifted his hands and plunged, without pausing to think, into Bach’s Fantasia in C minor.  And the world which had been off-key for so long … so very long … was suddenly in tune again.

For those who expressed interest in hearing Julian play, here is the closest thing to it:- 
Jean Rondeau plays the piece mentioned above – J.S. Bach’s Fantasia in C Minor

Jean Rondeau is a young, French harpsichord virtuoso with four brilliant albums to his credit – and, in certain respects, he is uncannily like my Julian Langham.
I was lucky enough to meet him prior to his concert at the Cadogan Hall in July. He was utterly relaxed and perfectly charming; as for his performance – it was electric!



I know I said we’d visit Vauxhall next but a single fact about the Pantheon made it stand out (to me, at least!) so it has taken precedence.

Designed by James Watt, the Pantheon stood upon the Oxford Street site currently occupied by Marks & Spencer. Unlike Vauxhall and Ranelagh, it was a set of winter assembly rooms which Horace Walpole described as “the most beautiful edifice in England.”  Building costs were just short of £37,000 and the Pantheon opened its doors in January 1772 – with 1700 members of high society paying £50 for a first night ticket.

Now … here’s the place where you’ll have to excuse a brief digression.
It’s generally accepted that the inspiration for the rotunda of the Pantheon was Hagia Sofia (pron. Aya Sofia) in Istanbul.  It was built as a church by the Emperor Justinian in around 535, turned into a mosque in 1453 when Constantinople fell to Mehmet the Conqueror and is now a museum.

Externally, Hagia Sofia isn’t the prettiest mosque in Istanbul. Compared to the Sultan Ahmet, just a short distance away, it looks almost clumsy and yet it is that very solidity that has kept it in one piece through fifteen centuries.  However, walk into the vast, beautiful space within as James Watt must have done … and it’s not difficult to understand why he was seized by the ambition to create something similar.

Needless to say, the exterior of Watt’s Pantheon resembles other architecture of its time.  The pièce de résistance is the rotunda; topped by a dome, it had a central area of 18 square metres and was one of the largest ever previously built in England.  Two of its sides had colonnades screening the aisles and upper galleries and the ground floor boasted tea and supper rooms.  Decoration was in the Roman style and, in its day, the Pantheon was said to be, “the most elegant structure in Europe – if not the globe.”

When it first opened, it hosted only thrice-weekly assemblies without dancing or music.  Soon, however, there were also concerts and masquerade balls – such as the ball attended by Adrian and Caroline in The Player and the recital given by Julian Langham in Cadenza.  Among various notable events which took place there, the most bizarre is probably the exhibition of Lunardi’s balloon – shown fully inflated inside the Pantheon shortly after his 1784 successful 50 mile flight to Hampshire. But despite this, popularity appeared to decline during the 1780s and, after the King’s Theatre, Haymarket burned down in 1789, the Pantheon was converted into an opera house.  Sadly, its new incarnation was short-lived; in 1792, like the King’s Theatre, it too burned to the ground.


Although Rockliffe and Amberley prefer to avoid London’s pleasure gardens, they were popular with the younger set and we’ve enjoyed evenings with them at Vauxhall, Ranelagh and the Pantheon.

These three weren’t the only pleasure gardens. There were numerous others – Marylebone, Islington Spa and Sadlers Wells, for example.  But Ranelagh was the first one to challenge the long-held supremacy of Vauxhall … so I thought we’d start there.

It occupied the site of the former home of the Earl of Ranelagh and opened in 1742.  The rotunda alone was a marvel.  Spanning 150 feet and supported by walls 17 feet thick, its vast, domed ceiling dripped with massive crystal and gilt chandeliers.  And the central structure with its marble columns and gilded caryatids – originally meant to hold the orchestra – became a massive fireplace to combat the damp and chill of typically English summer evenings.  Admission price was half a crown … which may not sound much these days but was probably substantial enough to keep the riff-raff out.  One account tells us that Ranelagh was frequented by ‘the elite of fashion’ and gentlemen sporting powder, wigs, ruffles and gold-headed canes.  ‘Cropped heads and shoe-strings’ were apparently denied entry. Ranelagh was also considered more respectable than Vauxhall … but I think it’s safe to assume that there were as many goings-on in the shrubbery there as anywhere else.

Parties of up to eight persons could take supper in one of the hundred-and-four boxes whilst listening to the concert.  Later, there would be dancing.  Or one could stroll through the gardens to the Temple of Pan or wander along the Great Walk where reflections from lanterns in the trees danced on the surface of the canal.

Ranelagh soon became famous for its masquerades.  In April 1749 a Grand Jubilee Masquerade in the Venetian  Taste celebrated the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.  Horace Walpole said, ‘It had nothing Venetian about it but was by far the prettiest spectacle I ever saw. On the canal was a sort of gondola adorned with flags and filled with music. There were booths for tea and wine, gaming and dancing.’

The Ranelagh Regatta and Ball was the high-light of 1775.  The Thames became something like a floating town, teaming with pleasure boats, gaming tables and vendors selling food and drink.  Scaffolding lined the river-bank to hold spectators of the boat race – the start of which was signaled by cannon fire and the whole event culminated in an extravagant firework display.

I like to think a jolly good time was had by all and would have loved to see Ranelagh myself.



The New Spring Gardens opened in the summer of 1661 – just a year after the restoration of King Charles ll – on the south side of the River Thames.  John Evelyn described it as a prettily-contrived plantation of flowers,  fruit-trees and hedges of gooseberry bushes.  The Spring in the garden’s name refers to concealed jets of water, rigged to surprise the unwary for the amusement of dry onlookers.  This jolly idea originated at Versailles and was copies at Peter the Great’s palace of Peterhof.  I’ve seen the latter ones in action – and, trust me, they can soak you!

By the 18th century, the New Spring Gardens – now often called Vaux Hall – had a name for rowdy and licentious behaviour.  “Both sexes meet and serve one another as guides to lose their way; the windings and turnings in the Little Wilderness are so intricate that the most experienced mothers have often lost themselves in looking for their daughters.”

From 1729, managed by Jonathan Tyers – property developer, impresario and patron of the arts – the gardens grew into one of the most complex and profitable business ventures of the eighteenth century in Britain.  In 1785 the name Vauxhall Gardens became official.  In 1792, the admission fee was two shillings and the gardens attracted all manner of people eager to see the tightrope walkers, hot-air balloon ascents, concerts and fireworks. The “Turkish tent”  and the interior of the Rotunda became one of its most popular attractions.  The main walks were lit at night by hundreds of lamps. Over time more features were added: additional supper boxes, a music room, a Chinese pavilion, ruins, arches, statues and a cascade. Smaller, unlit walks were popular with those visitors who weren’t there to view the many attractions.

In 1749, a rehearsal for Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks attracted an audience of twelve thousand. In 1786 a fancy-dress jubilee attracted sixty-one thousand revellers.  And in 1817, a thousand soldiers took part in a re-enactment of the Battle of Waterloo.

Vauxhall Gardens closed in 1840 after its owners went bankrupt but re-opened in 1841. It changed hands in 1842, and was permanently closed in 1859.


  HAZARD   How to play the game – plus some useful advice!

The dice game, Hazard was immensely popular with Georgian gamblers.
However, if you’re not a member of Sinclairs  (see Rockliffe books 3, 4 & 5) and are planning to play in one of the less respectable houses – or even a hell – it’s worth taking a quick course in the correct lingo.
You wouldn’t want to be thought a flat or a bubble because this might result in you being targeted by a mace cove or a nickum – which, in turn would almost certainly see you thoroughly dished up or, worse still, lurched.
So here are a few things you need to know.
The person rolling the dice is the caster. A winning throw is a Nick in and a losing one, a Throw out. Don’t forget that the correct call for throwing a double-one is Crabs!  because if you mistakenly shout Snake-eyes!, fellow-players will assume you are either a chub or a foreigner.

Hazard is about luck, not skill.  It uses two dice and can be played by any number of people.
The first Caster rolls the dice until he (or she) throws a Main – that is to say, a number between 5 and 9. This done, everybody else bets on whether or not he will win his next throw.
And this is where is gets complicated – or so it seems to me. If anyone can explain the logic behind these winning and losing combinations, I’ll be delighted to hear from them.
If the Main is a 5, only another throw of 5 will win.  2, 3, 11, 12 will all lose.
If it’s a 6, a throw of 6 or 12 will win.  2, 3 and 11 lose.
7 … then 7 or 11 win.  2, 3 and 12 lose.
Is everybody following?  Excellent.
If the Main is an 8, throws of 8 or 12 win; 2, 3 and 11 all lose
If it’s a 9, only 9 will win; 2, 3, 11 and 12 all lose.
The caster carries on throwing until he achieves either a winning or losing combination – after which the dice move on to the next player.
Personally, I don’t think it’s difficult to see how arguments and fights might break out!

Giacomo Casanova  1725 to 1798

Thanks to his own memoirs, far too much is known about Casanova for me to cover his remarkable life – writer, philosopher, alchemist, traveller, spy and lover – in detail.  So here are some random snap-shots.

He was born in Venice but went to university in Padua where he got a degree in law and developed an interest in medicine.  Once back in Venice, he found the first of many patrons – a Venetian senator – and he worked as a clerical law assistant.  Soon bored by this, he decided a military career would suit him better and, already being something of a dandy, he decided to begin by dressing the part.

My uniform was white, with a blue vest, a shoulder knot of silver and gold… I bought a long sword, and with my handsome cane in hand, a trim hat with a black cockade, with my hair cut in side whiskers and a long false pigtail, I set forth to impress the whole city.

He found military duty as tedious as clerical work and he lost most of his pay playing faro. So he left the army, returned to Venice and decided to become a professional gambler – which soon left him destitute.  He took work as a theatre violinist, during which he and his fellow musicians amused themselves with practical jokes such as untying the gondolas moored before private homes.

The taste for practical jokes was to prove unfortunate.  Having just acquired another wealthy patron his next merry jape involved a freshly dug-up corpse which frightened the victim into permanent paralysis … and sent Casanova fleeing to Parma.

So what of the amorous adventures he is so famous for?  Well, these had started early.  Giacomo was six feet two inches tall, dark-haired, intelligent and liked to dress well.  One presumes he also had charm and considerable talent – as well as stamina – in the bedroom.

While in Parma, he had a three-month affair with a Frenchwoman named Henrietta. This may actually have been true love.

They who believe that a woman is incapable of making a man equally happy all the twenty-four hours of the day have never known an Henriette. The joy which flooded my soul was far greater when I conversed with her during the day than when I held her in my arms at night.

The next few years were ones of travel; Paris, Dresden, Prague and Vienna to name but a few.  In all of these, he was known for his numerous liaisons and his debts. Returning to Venice in 1755 he was arrested for affront to religion and common decency, sentenced to five years and imprisoned on the top floor of the Doge’s Palace.

He was placed in solitary confinement, where he suffered from lack of light, summer heat and fleas. (It’s worth remembering that Casanova was over six feet tall.  Look at the height of the ceiling in his cell!) His first escape plan was thwarted when he was moved to a room with a view. But he and the priest occupying the cell next to his own soon hit upon another. The priest made a hole in his ceiling, then climbed across and made a hole in the ceiling of Casanova’s cell. The pair of them then pried their way through the lead plates and onto the roof of the palace. They had hoped to drop into the canal but decided the distance was too great.  So Casanova broke open a dormer window and they climbed back inside. Resting overnight in one of the palace’s great chambers, they changed their clothes and strolled through corridors and galleries until they found the stairs to the ground floor.  Here, they convinced the guards that they had been accidentally locked inside the palace after an official function … and walked brazenly out through the front door.

Thirty years later, Casanova wrote The Story of My Flight, which was reprinted in many languages.  His own view of the exploit was, I am proud of it; but my pride comes from my having concluded that the thing could be done and having had the courage to undertake it.

He fled to Paris where he raised funds for the French treasury (and made a fortune for himself) by setting up the first state lottery and being one of its best salesmen.  Later, he tried selling the same idea in England and Russia but without success.

After Paris, Casanova travelled constantly – often on spying missions for one country or another.  He visited Amsterdam, Cologne, Genoa, Rome, Turin, London, Moscow, St Peterburg, Barcelona and Warsaw – and many other cities. He also has the unique distinction of having been thrown out of a good many of them, thanks to his numerous affairs, his debts and his dabbling with the occult.  But along the way, he met many notable figures; Madame Pompadour, Rousseau, Voltaire, Frederick the Great of Prussia, Catherine the Great of Russia, George lll of England, Charles lll of Spain, Benjamin Franklin and Canaletto.

In 1774, the Venetian authorities finally gave Casanova permission to return home – where everyone, even the Inquisitors, wanted to hear how he had managed to escape from prison.  But in 1783, after writing a vicious satire about the Venetian nobility, he was expelled again. This time he travelled to Bohemia and became a librarian in the Castle of Dux. He lived comfortably … and alleviated the tedium of his last years by writing his memoirs.

Casanova died on June 4, 1798 and was buried at Dux … but the exact location of his grave had been forgotten over the years and remains unknown.  However, the first and only Casanova Museum & Experience is now open in Venice at the Palazzo Pesaro Papfava – and it’s well worth a visit.