One aspect of English heritage I’m fervent to explore over the coming years is the great, stately manors and houses of England. The first stop: Blenheim Palace. There is nothing quite as dreamlike to me as driving down a gravelled countryside drive with a glorious historic stone facade waiting at the other end, housing historical maximalism and multigenerational stories of aristocratic opulence. What’s more marvellous are the interiors, festooned with priceless oil paintings, rich antique wallpapers, golden literature and the period furniture which transports anyone who enters to another page in Britain’s time…
While we weren’t able to tour the interior of Blenheim Palace given the pandemic, we were able to stroll about the grounds a bit and breathe in our first English summer. How fragrant, and sweet Oxfordshire air is in May. With no tourists nor modern automobiles in sight, it wasn’t difficult to envision horse-drawn carriages carrying ball invitees up the drive, dropping guests before the grand doorway before they flutter inside, a chattering procession of regency gowns in full, bouncing glory.
Most famously visited for being the birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill, the palace is also the ancestral and current home of the Dukes of Marlborough. The rare architectural example of English Baroque style is also an attraction for design types. Blenheim Palace is notably the only non-royal house in England to hold the title of palace; though I understand the exception, calling it anything else would be wholeheartedly trite. From the outside, the awes rival that of Versailles, where Lady Antoinette hosted quite grandiose parties of her own.
Seeing the splendour of Blenheim Palace grounds made me realise something about English history that I’ve long suspected: it is exceedingly more rich a dream than any story, adaptation or novel could ever truly do justice to. The greatest feats are mere fractional glimmers of a radiancy too spectacular to ever be captured as a whole.
The English vision kept blooming with picturesque sights of lambs playing with one another, bouncing around their mothers until peckish. The glittering, peacock-blue waters of River Glyme weave around the grounds, speckled with cream whisps of swans, a trail of cygnets trailing adoringly behind this time of year.
