Effortless fun in Glasgow

Meeting up with Ray for coffee yesterday was the last scheduled thing I had planned for the whole trip. The rest - apart from connections and check ins and such - is purely spontaneous. And so I couldn't help but feel, waking up this morning, that

1. I was on the downhill part of the trip at last, and
2. That the trip really belonged to Stu and I now, and that we were finally welcome to have a shit time if we wanted to.

And that was all it took for me to have a marvellous time.

We got ready slowly, and meandered over to the Millennium Hotel just to make sure we hadn't been double charged for the booking error. We hadn't. And so we took my friend Ray's advice and caught the tiny little underground train to Hillhead to check out either the University or the Botanic Gardens. You see? We hadn't even decided the reason for getting off at Hillhead when we caught the train.

The underground was clean, quiet, small, and very orderly. None of the fiery soot smeared desperation of the Victoria Line to Brixton. This was like something out of Star Trek.

After a Pain au Chocolat (Stu had a Tart Tatin) at Cafe Francoise, we settled on seeing the University and maybe Kelvingrove Park, not knowing what either of them looked like. Stuart took note of the name "Hunterian" and after seeing five different signposts pointing to "The Hunterian," we learned that it was Scotland's oldest Museum, and we decided to check it out.

Even the walk there was incredible. The sun came out for us, and the University of Glasgow showed itself to us in all its sandstone glory: spires, lancet windows, crests, gargoyles, all sorts of gothic turns and turrets. A handsome young student with curly hair and blue eyes asked in a thick Scottish accent where the biomedical science building was. I said in a Gillard-broad accent "Mate, we're Australian tourists. We don't know where anything is," at which point he had the saucy audacity to pat my husband on the back, laugh, and walk off. Outrageous.

The Hunterian Museum is a nineteenth century style collection of "discovered" artifacts, cabinets of curiosities, ancient spoils, stuffed animals, and dinosaur bones. No big surprises there, but what was surprising was that the collection was curated in a posture of self-critique. "Curating Discomfort" was displayed in huge letters behind the Plesiosaur skeleton. The plaques acknowledged the white supremacism of the museum's history, and even critiqued a statue of the "great" James Watt for his connection to slavery and slave money. This is WONDERFUL stuff, the exact opposite of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. By invoking critique and truth-telling, the Hunterian is able to be part of progress rather than a bulwark against it.

Stuart and I were so impressed. We noticed a miniature model of the Hunterian as part of its display. In some ways, recursively, it had become an object of its own study.

But the Hunterian isn't just a Museum. It's also an Art Gallery. Stuart and I went had some deliciously adequate food from the University cafeteria while the Public Sector Union - well, about twenty of them - stood outside protesting for "no fees" or maybe "fair pay." It was kind of ironic that the chant was "What do we want?" and the crowd didn't know whether to say "Fair pay!" or "No Fees!" so they just mumbled, and then the call "When do want it?" "Now!"

I was glad to see them. I was a member of the Australian version, the CPSU, myself.

Over at the Art Gallery, we looked at a very tight, tiny, tidy collection of masterpieces, including a working conservation of Gavin Hamilton's Hector and Andromache, a few shimmering Whistler's, and a portrait by Allan Ramsay that took my breath away although I don't know why. We were so taken with that collection (which curiously also included a miniature model of itself - I didn't dare look inside lest I see either a miniature version of myself, or, worse, a dollhouse inside the dollhouse) that we decided to see the paid exhibition as well, the house of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, one of the great geniuses of the Glasgow School and Art Nouveau.

This was surprisingly moving. Mackintosh's house was breathtakingly coherent in how designed and deliberate it was. The elongated geometries, whiplash curves, minimalist clutter - the aesthetic had taken over every piece of wood, every piece of metal, every angle in the house. The only point of comparison I had was Norman Lindsay's house in Faulconbridge, but the Lindsay house was sensual whereas this was optical.

I went batshit crazy in the giftshop, so high was I on art vibes, and the woman running the place suggested we finish up with an artisanal pastry at Broken Clock near Kelvinbridge Station. This was a delightful, airy, mint-green place run by two achingly handsome dudes who had the most celestial selection of patisseries. We had a mango and citrus slice worth crying over.

Thence back to the hotel for my last holiday sketch in my little travel journal (a Mackintosh Chair), a Guinness, some chicken, and a walk around twilit Glasgow. We've had the most wonderful weather today, and we are happy.Meer informatie