Here Comes Treble: Fit For A Prince
On a cold, wet morning Isabel Bradley and her step-son Anton ambled into the Royal Pavilion in Brighton.
They found themselves enchanted by a fabulous palace.
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It was with happy anticipation that my step-son, Anton, and I set out, to visit the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. We gladly abandoned a cold, wet April morning and ambled into the beautiful palace, admiring the faux-bamboo staircases at either end of the long hall which was the first stop. We alternately listened to the pre-recorded guided tour and spoke to the guides who were in all the rooms.
Prince George, eldest son of King George III, was a rebel, a drinker, a gambler and a womaniser. In 1811, at the age of forty-nine, when his father was thought to be insane, the Prince became Regent. He succeeded to the throne when he was fifty-eight, only reigning for ten years before his death.
Young George purchased a farmhouse near Brighton. At the incredible cost if five hundred thousand pounds, he had it converted into an Indian fantasy, a white fabrication topped with onion-domes and minarets. The interior is decorated in a combination of Chinese and Indian opulence, though the Chinese influence dominates most of the rooms.
In this fabulous palace, the Prince hosted wild parties with friends, enjoyed the company of loose women and arranged assignations with his many lovers, using an underground tunnel from his bedroom to his favourite mistress’ home. He was frequently at the centre of one scandal or another. One of the worst of these was his secret marriage to Maria Fitzherbert, a catholic widow. This was against the laws of succession and his father had the marriage annulled. His later marriage to Caroline of Brunswick seems to have been an unmitigated disaster for everyone concerned.
In the huge banqueting hall, Anton and I chatted to a gentleman who gave us an inkling of what it was like dining with Prinny. We gazed up at the central chandelier,which is suspended from a domed ceiling painted with palm fronds, some of which are of copper in relief. The massive lamp is lit with rape-seed oil and is held up by a soaring silver dragon. Many of Prinny’s guests were uneasy when seated beneath this fire-breathing dead-weight, fearing that it would fall on them as they dined.
The table was set for dessert. We were told that ice was, at the time, the latest trend in dining. “Where,” I wondered in awe, “did they get ice over a hundred years before refrigerators and freezers were invented?”
Our friendly tour-guide told us that it was imported either from Norway or from Boston, USA and kept in ‘cold rooms’ underground, no doubt the entire procedure being exorbitantly expensive. At each place setting on the table were smallish gold vessels which, during the grandiose meals, were filled with crushed ice used to cool wine glasses. Every drink, from wine to port to sherry, was served with ice. Sorbets and ice-creams were the ultimate in fashionable desserts of the early nineteenth century.
The cutlery was gold, apparently because the acid of citrus fruits tarnished silver. Plates and serving dishes were gold plated, gold decorated, or solid gold.
The Prince and his cronies could spend anything up to eight hours over a meal, wading through thirty courses or more in one sitting.
Another guide, at the doorway where we left the banqueting hall, pointed out more dragons in unexpected nooks and crannies. The Chinese Dragon as a symbol of good luck reverts to bad luck if incorrectlyused. This palace has barely survived numerous disasters such as arson, hurricanes and a dome falling through the roof of the glorious music room.
The music room contains a large pipe-organ, and is decorated with many dragons. There are lovely leaded-lights of butterflies and flowers in the raised roof. Its walls are covered in plush red and gold. It is a wonderful place to sit and contemplate just how little time, means and imagination we have in the twenty-first century to enjoy luxurious living.
Anton and I strolled through opulent rooms of all descriptions to the upper storey of this splendid building, where we spent a welcome half-hour in the tea-room, resting our feet and enjoying lunch. Then we sauntered through the rooms of the palace where the Prince and his retinue lived and slept, discovering that a massive shower, a huge bath-room and separate water-closet were installed, in times when most people had no thought of indoor plumbing. He also had a magnificent library, over which Anton pored in fascination.
Anton and I left the Pavilion via the inevitable museum-shop, amazed at the array of memorabilia on offer to the public. It was a wonderful way to spend a cold and rainy spring day.
A visit to the glorious visual cacophony that is the Royal Pavilion should be on every visitor’s list of ‘things we must do in Brighton.’
Until next time… ‘here comes Treble!’
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By Isabel Bradley
