Dreaming in the Archaeological Museum ...

I have always  had a great fondness for museums - when I was ten years old or so, I made my own museum in the garage - there, in shoe boxes, stuffed with cotton wool, I arranged my treasured artifacts - there were rusty links of chain, scavenged from the foreshore - sharp edged bits of flint, which I fancied were stone age scrapers, had pride of place, as did the foreign coins my dad had given me -

I would linger inside the dimly lit space, thinking about the Romans, or Tudor sea captains - I would then get my bike out, and cycle as fast as I could down the bright alleys - later, I would climb a tree, scrambling up as high as I could, my bare legs wrapped around slender branches - I would balance there, looking at my watch - why did the second hand sweep round so quickly? - why did people grow old?

Once, our neighbour, Mrs Nicholson, let me stroke the back of her hand - I said - it's like dry paper - would my own hands become like this?

Perhaps this explains my love of museums - with each exhibit, a delicate piece of scrimshaw, say, or a marble head, I can dive into time - I can imagine how it was - I can hear different voices, I can breath strange air -

I knew, therefore, that I must visit the Archaeological Museum in Split - I wanted to taste its wonders -

We got lost on the way - we ended up bewildered in a warren of narrow courtyards - by the time we entered the garden of the museum, we were dizzy - the pavements were ribbons of glaring stone -

But in the garden of the Museum, there were shady arbours - cypress trees calmed the eye - a wellhead had a frieze of bare breasted goddesses - bright blossoms scented the air -

Around the sides of the garden there was a covered terrace - you could wander among Roman and Greek stelae, commemorating army veterans, cherished wives, freed slaves - there were mosaics, as bright and sharp as Polaroids -

Inside, I  looked for a long time at an ivory bas relief of a triton and a nereid - I imagined them, deep in their watery paradise - I thought of the craftsman, dreaming of silky skin, of tender caresses -