My parents have been down (or I guess up and slightly to the right like) visiting.
The last couple of times they visited my mum has wanted to go to Chartwell and this time we finally got our shit together and went. Chartwell, of course, was the home of Winston Churchill and his family from 1922 until his death in 1965. It’s been maintained by the National Trust ever since as part historic house and part museum to Churchill’s life. Located in the Kent countryside it’s about sixteen or so miles from my house making it a quite easy afternoon out.
The house itself is set in amongst a small set of hills and a generous sprawl of gardens populated with a range of plants and water features. The house rises up on a raised flat that gives a series of breathtaking views across the rolling fields of Kent that, reportedly, was part of the reason Churchill fell in love with the property and bought it, against the advice of friends and, indeed, his own wife. It is an odd red brick Victorian building that, taken in another setting, I’m not sure many would care for, in spite of the changes Britain’s most famous Prime Minister wrought on it.
Thankfully, no one really comes to look at the architecture: they come to look at the grounds – beautiful – and the interior – strange but fascinating – and therein is its charm: for the interior is more or less preserved as it would have been when Churchill lived there. I’m not sure what I expected but walking through the house produces a weird, not unpleasant, presence of its famous owner, as if he just stepped out for the moment to walk in the garden, perhaps enjoying a cigar. Perhaps its the relative closeness of the period in which he lived, the furnishings are after all not that out of date really – not to my tastes but certainly not Victorian or Edwardian – and that adds a false familiarity of time if nothing else. Or maybe, in spite of the scale of the house, the distinct sense of family about the property.
The point is it was a more intimate kind of history that the building gave off and I thoroughly enjoyed exploring the house. Not least because nearly every room had a bookcase of some description, crammed with books, and a library room filled with rather more books. I managed to resist making off with some. Just. I remain somewhat in awe of Churchill’s own literary output and wonder – in spite of the servants – if he ever slept. It was a pleasant few hours, take a look next time you’re passing.
The rest of the weekend has been just as pleasant and a welcome break at the end of a crushingly paced week.