After dropping the kids off at school, Francisco and I traipsed across the city to visit William Morris's Red House, built by architect Philip Webb. First we shared coffee and a pistachio croissant.
The house was made for Morris when he was like 25 and it is being restored very slowly, so it's not in its original condition at all--for instance there wouldn't have been Morris wallpapers, which he designed much later. And many of the walls and ceilings that had been painted had been painted over.
Embroidery for a Morris tapestry, now somewhere else.
Some cool furniture by Webb--this in dragon blood red.
Some cool ceilings, hand painted using holes pricked in the plaster as guiding lines.
Wall mural by Elizabeth Siddal, Dante Gabriel Rossetti's wife.
Recreation of Morris embroidery.
Amazing wall mural.
Above: recreation of the ceiling design. Below--how conservators know what was going on with the ceiling.
Above: Subsequent owner's guest book was the glass in the panes of a screen.
Stained glass by Burnes-Jones (middle) and prob Morris.
The garden was lovely, even in the rain. The national trust properties always have gardens--and cut flowers from the garden in the house.
Lovely to see flowers being born.
Worth the wet shoes.
In the evening, Francisco had nice drinks with a friend at his club.
By the end of the night I was wiped out. I woke up with the happiness of recovery yesterday morning, but I think I need to pace myself. I feel hungover, not having had any alcohol, obviously, today. This illness is not only rough, but lingering.
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