Green, green grass of home

I have frequently berated my OH for shambling along wherever we go, his eyes fixed on the ground 90% of the time. I have mocked him with the title of the only travel memoir he would ever be able to write: "Pavements I have walked on".

But today my eyes were steadfastly downcast too, because we've begun our A40 pilgrimage and fetched up this afternoon at Blenheim Palace, Woodstock. There are riches here: 24ct gold on the ceiling mouldings; venerable tapestries depicting even more long-ago battles; fabulous portraits
of the Churchill family including John, the first Duke of Marlborough, who had movie-star good looks; beautiful porcelain, French furniture, painted ceilings, a solid silver table centerpiece that weighs almost as much as me and takes 6 hours to polish; and then, there's the grass.

Fine, fine lawn grass that's flawless, velvety green and perfectly striped, stretching away for acres, fringed by tall oak and beech trees. It's a triumph - and absolutely deserves anyone's full attention.