Private passions | 23 October 2004

If travel indeed broadens the mind, much of its benign influence and inspiration must come from contact with foreign culture, very often in the form of museum collections in the country visited. (The British, perhaps surprisingly, are valued museum-goers.) The remarkable assembly of masterpieces and lesser Salon items that fills the Louvre actually says a great deal about French history, if correctly interpreted. Likewise the contents of the National Gallery reflect upon our national character and patterns of taste with no less piquancy and point. So if our public galleries continue to stage sumptuous exhibitions which showcase the world’s great collections for us here in London, one of the great pleasures of (at least) urban travel will be forfeited — why go to the Prado, if the Prado will come to us?

These reflections occur after a short sojourn spent roaming the mountains of northern Cyprus. It’s tempting to say that the nearest I came to culture was watching Shrek 2 on the aeroplane coming back, but I fear that would be a slight exaggeration; there were some ancient pots rather well displayed in glass cases at Cyprus airport.