When I first visited the Mauritshuis Gallery in The Hague I was excited at the prospect of seeing two paintings by Vermeer I knew well from reproductions:  ‘Girl with a Pearl Earring’, now even more famous because of Tracy Chevalier’s book of that name; and the ‘View of Delft’, which - in Marcel Proust’s great work - brought about the death of the elderly writer Bergotte, who - anxious to see the ‘little patch of yellow wall’ (‘petit pan de mur jaune’) referred to in a review of the Vermeer exhibition in Paris - foolishly, despite his state of health, made his way to the Jeu de Paume where the effort proved too much for him.

It was, of course, marvellous to see both these great paintings. But the real pleasure of the day was to discover the delicious ‘Oyster Eater’  (‘Het Oestereetstertje’) by Jan Steen, contemporary of Rembrandt and friend of Gabriel Metsu.  Just 20,5 x 14,5 cm it is a tiny marvel, the smallest painting known by the artist.

She is looking straight at us, the viewers, and it comes as no surprise to learn that, in 17th century Holland, oysters were considered to be aphrodisiacs, especially when spiced up (and we have caught her about to add a touch of salt to the nacreous interior of the tempting bivalve). It hardly needs the presence of the closed off bed behind the girl’s left shoulder to let us know what is really on the menu here.

That first visit to the Mauritshuis was in summer time, not the best season for eating oysters. The next time I went was in late winter time, however, and I was delighted to introduce Jane to the little oyster eater.  At lunch the next day Jane, in her turn, introduced me to the best way to eat an oyster: you add nothing more than a drop or two of lemon juice, raise it to your mouth, making sure not to spill any of the liquid, then - as your lips encounter the little darling - you close your eyes, concentrating purely on taste and smell, until it gently slips down.

All of these elements - the joy of eating oysters and the delights of intimate paintings of 17th century Dutch women - combined in an extraordinarily satisfying way this last week, during our two-day visit to Cambridge, where the splendid exhibition ‘Vermeer’s Women: Secrets and Silence’ is about to end at the Fitzwilliam Museum. We made our way there at 9.30, half an hour before opening time, (click here for my tips about avoiding the worst of the crowds), and had plenty of time to examine, at our leisure and relatively undisturbed, the jewels on offer.

Vermeer is represented by just four paintings: the ‘Lacemaker’ from the Louvre, and three versions of women playing the virginal. The remaining  28 works, by the likes of Steen, de Hooch and Gerrit Dou, show a woman - often alone, sometimes with a maid or child, rarely with a man - engaged, for the most part, in simple domestic activities: peeling apples, scraping parsnips, washing her hands, having her hair done,  breastfeeding her baby, choosing fish, sweeping the floor, sewing, spinning, staring out of the window.

Not, however, buying or eating oysters.  For that we had to cross the road from the museum to the Loch Fyne restaurant where an abundance of oysters were, as usual in January, to be found. A dozen each with a single glass of wine were enough for a light lunch, as we were to dine in my old college, Saint John’s, that evening.

But before that, and to continue the main theme of this particular posting,   oysters popped up once more as, while checking my email, I discovered that the poem of the month (provided by the website This Old bank of Sand) happens to be:

‘Oysters’ by Seamus Heaney

Our shells clacked on the plates.

My tongue was a filling estuary,

My palate hung with starlight:

As I tasted the salty Pleiades

Orion dipped his foot into the water.

Alive and violated,

They lay on their bed of ice:

Bivalves: the split bulb

And philandering sigh of ocean

Millions of them ripped and shucked and scattered.

We had driven to that coast

Through flowers and limestone

And there we were, toasting friendship,

Laying down a perfect memory

In the cool of thatch and crockery.

Over the Alps, packed deep in hay and snow,

The Romans hauled their oysters south of Rome:

I saw damp panniers disgorge

The frond-lipped, brine-stung

Glut of privilege

And was angry that my trust could not repose

In the clear light, like poetry or freedom

Leaning in from sea. I ate the day

Deliberately, that its tang

Might quicken me all into verb, pure verb.