I’ve been thinking a lot about Winston Churchill recently … he has a strong connection with this place, having been born in Blenheim Palace, just across the lake. And though he received a state funeral at Westminster Abbey, he is buried in the little church at Bladon, just outside the Palace Grounds.

His branch of the Spencer family wasn’t rich, despite being related to the Duke of Marlborough (our landlord, as it happens). So he needed to work for a living.

Obviously he did some of that work in his capacity as an MP and PM. But in his youth and again in retirement, most of his income came from journalism and writing. I had long known of his prolific output (43 full-length books), so I understood the quantity. But I was utterly ignorant of the quality until I was told this morning about Churchill winning the Nobel Prize for literature in 1953.

Many of Churchill’s books (particularly his memoirs) were written at Chartwell, the private house that’s most closely associated with his later life. Chartwell is a special place, with the spirit of the great man still clearly felt in every room. It is a privilege to be able to walk where he walked, breathe the air that he breathed, and appreciate the beauty of the place he called home.