next stop was blenheim palace. my other house.
above is the first gate. after parking we walked through the second gate (below) into some kind of ante-court.
and then you walked through another gate into the main court.
and voila. although i still don’t understand landscaping with vast quantities of gravel.
looking back on the gate from the inside.
so the left wing is still lived in by the current duke and his fourth hot wife. personally, i would get a richer 5th wife, out of dubai or something, kick out the tourists, and then live in the whole thing the way god intended. that would be the moral thing to do. and definitely the tradition of the establishment. when the going gets rough, marry a vanderbilt. sometimes the old ways are best.
it was funny, as we were walking around i commented, “it’s just too bad the oldest son is so ugly….” to which my husband said, “pfft! what do you care?” true.
the front of the house is mostly one big room with a gallery along the front full of busties. then to the right when you walk in is the coat room where winston churchill was born. spur of the moment kinda deal. there’s a grand vestibule of sorts with an imposing set of doors, front and center, which leads to the state dining room. because that’s where the action happens. if you want to see pictures you can check here. and the floor-plan is here.
the left side is the private apartments. the right wing is mostly taken up by the library. which is quite boss, as you can see from this previously posted, twice stolen photo. still, in person it was rather shabby. i guess since no one lives in this part of the house they don’t feel obliged to clean the moldings or polish the floors. naturally all of this will change once i usurp power.
and here i am, like i own the place. and if i did, i would certainly arrange for better heating. and probably pull down all the historic tapestries. face it people, they’re faded. my respect for history only goes so far.
the more i think about it, if i were a hot, iranian oil heiress i would have been destined to be a duchess. i’m pretty sure.
okay, so from the first impression of this place you would think these people just didn’t like weeding or nature in general. but they just keep it out back. like i said, they garden better than they dust. (also, the whole bank of windows you see here, excepting the basement, belong to the library. suh-weet.)
here is the 2,000 acre back yard with man-made lake. because we felt like we wanted one and who was going to say we couldn’t? the park was designed by that “capability” brown fellow who spent 10 years trying to make it look like he wasn’t there. not exactly my style, but it does juxtapose nicely with the formal gardens.
stepping down the terrace.
and then swinging a left to take the lake walk.
actually, i followed the walk, my husband zigzagged all around looking at the trees. “look, there’s another one!”
a kid in a candy store. and i must say this does work out i my favor since he is putting in job applications with the uk forestry commission. so many trees, so little time.
the waterfall where the lake dead ends.
boy feeling dreamy.
he actually drug me across the wet lawns in my flats to get a picture of this one. (it kinda looked like the other ones.)
the approach back to the palace.
then we walked around to the front.
from there you have a straight shot view across the lake to one of those phallic structures mankind seems so fond of. personally, what is a yard without one?
we never made it all the way to the “column of victory” on account of me freezing to death. but this is what it looks like close up, if you must know. i just wanted to see the bridge.
it was built for entertaining with rooms in each tower. the duchess, however, suffered no romantic notions about “water-side suppers with riparian entertainments” and never used them. she said they were dank. then capability flooded them with his lake.
anyways, now i’m sad. who wants to move to england with me?
p.s. a random quote i ran into about blenheim bed making. i am inspired.
“It was rather like trying to put clothes on a flip-flopping whale; one needed both strength and patience. There were three mattresses. The bottom one, stuffed with straw, was turned once a week; the middle mattress, made of wool or horsehair, was turned daily; the top one made of feathers, was also turned daily and had to be shaken, punched and smacked until it was as light and puffed up and free from lumps as a giant soufflé. The Victorians took their beds seriously; it was in them, after all, that one entered and departed this life, and in between engaged in the fine Christian duty of begetting. Beds were the firm foundation of Home, Sweet Home, so the maids plumped and pummelled, pummelled and plumped, making all the Blenheim beds supremely smooth and supremely fat”.