Last night I felt like Howard Carter surely must have felt as he peered into Tutankhamen's tomb for the first time as I walked into Wilton's Music Hall, which justifies the title of London's hidden gem. The place had me reeling, joyfully sucker-punched with revelation, sheer wonderment and something near to radiance.

You know that terrible cliche that's always trotted out about place X being city Y's secret treasure? Well, Wiltons actually justifies that claim. I'll arm wrestle anyone who counter claims because it is.

A century old music hall disinterred and brought back to life after decades in the shadows and cobwebs. It's an eccentric and bohemian restoration, with the outer walls and those of the bars and corridors taken right back to the original brick. Bricks that are pitted, hollow, dented, denuded, almost primeval, like an ancient Galapagos's turtle, smacking of a time before time.

The manner in which the theatre itself has been restored is extraordinary. It's chiaroscuro like for one thing, full of light and shade, then there's the palimpsest effect of the walls being unevenly scraped back to their original layers, sometimes even back to the raw plaster.

The roughness of the walls comes alive with artfully placed lighting. Even the smallest sliver, a flake of a broken paint layer, shape shifts when the light catches it.

I was awed by this place. To close with another archaeological image: it was like discovering Pompeii for the first time.