On the last day of the holiday, we went to Blenheim; this time to “do the indoors.” Why? Well because In 1949, Lucy (of The End of the Pier fame) finds herself there. I’m not telling what the reason for her visit was – that would be telling; and until we were back on the terrace, she hadn’t told me! Still I now know, and I am back to “writing like the wind.”
Anyway, back to the point…
Having recently revisited Lloyd George’s grave, we decided to go to the grave of Winston Churchill. I was curious, why after a state funeral he would choose to be buried not in Westminister Abbey but near his childhood home.
From his letters, I knew that he frequently commented that his happiest times were at Blenheim. He was born in the palace, spent many happy holidays there with his grandmother; proposed to Clementine in the temple near the rose garden; and felt a massive affinity with the first Duke – John Churchill – that other great war leader. He is buried in St Martin’s church, Bladon. Beautiful isn’t it.
I’m not sure what I expected; I certainly didn’t get it. Churchill’s grave is much simpler than his political friend Lloyd George. In fact I missed it because I was looking for something more ostentatious. Something more fitting the grandson of a Duke.
What I found was a family man; a man whose family are all around him – his wife Clementine; his children, grandchildren, cousins; .even his parents.
And it made me sad; sad beyond belief. Not for Churchill, who was so loved.
But for Lloyd George.
Yes it is peaceful – and like Churchill he is buried near his childhood home. But he has no family or friends around him; neither wife buried beside him. He is alone.