On a clear, cool spring morning I passed through the impressive gate with its wrought iron leading from Woodstock, one of the most charming villages in all of Britain, to the lush grounds surrounding the Palace of Blenheim, arguably the most lavish of the great houses of the kingdom. Under centuries-old oaks and maples reflected in a crystalline lake, herds of cows and sheep grazed peacefully, oblivious to those visitors roaming about the freshly mown laws. This was as close to an idyll as one can get. Indeed, the waterscape designed by the noted Capability Brown represents the ideal blend of man’s art and nature, a harmony much sought after and intensely admired by the denizens of the Age of Enlightenment.

Just eight miles northwest of the collegiate town of Oxford and near both Stratford-on-Avon and the quaint conglommerate of villages known as the Cotswolds, Blenheim was constructed during the 18th century, a tangible thank offering to the man who had kept the formidable forces of Louis XIV under control. John Churchill, a military genius, was awarded this Royal Manor in 1704, whereupon his feisty and ambitious wife, Sarah, engaged Sir John van Brugh to design what was to become a magnificent monument. Extremely thrifty, Sarah endeavored to engage the services of van Brugh and other workmen for as little payment as possible during the years of construction (1702-05). Although she had been a confidante of the ailing Queen Anne, a sad figure, she quarreled with her sovereign and thus created a breach healed only in part late in the queen’s life.

In the handsome living room on the second floor of the palace is a marble statue of Queen Anne commissioned by Sarah. Extremely complimentary to the dumpy queen whose figure was so rotund that when she died, she was laid in a coffin as deep as it was wide, the piece is nicely executed.

In truth Blenheim is a triumph of art over nature, for the palace, beautifully decorated, is set off by a formal garden after the French style and undulating lawns that slip down to a river. After one passes through the colonnaded west front, the visitor finds himself awed by a lofty reception hall, a kind of atrium (though surely not open to the sky). Just off this lavish space is the small anteroom that was hastily converted into a bedroom when Winston Churchill’s much-pregnant mother began to have indications that the birth of the future prime minister was imminent.

Although the many rooms are singular in their lack of quality paintings (though there are many splendid tapestries), one portrait in the Red Drawing Room — that of the Ninth Duke of Marlborough and his tall American wife, Consuelo Vanderbilt, and their two children — is of conmsummate interest inasmuch as theirs was a arranged marriage that was notoriously unhappy. The somewhat impoverished duke needed money to restore the family estate and the Vanderbilts coveted a title — hence the liaison. So intensely did the beauteous Consuelo dislike her husband that she directed that she be buried in the Churchill family plot in nearby Bladen rather then in the crypt of the Churchill chapel adjacent to the palace, the repository of the bones of all the dukes and their families. In the same plot in the shadow of a weathered Gothic church rest Sir Winston and his wife, Clementine.

Though the interior of Blenheim is indubitably grandiose in its lavish furnishings and decorative effects, the palace notably lacks real comfort. These days, the latest duke and his family occupy a modest suite behind the state rooms. Like many another great house in Britain, this one must welcome tourists if it is to be maintained in its splendor.

A train ride, particularly attractive to children, over a portion of the grounds is available. On pleasant days one may lunch on the terrace overlooking the formal garden (the food from the cafeteria is mundane at best).

Leaving the estate, one should go by way of Park Street since this thoroughfare leads into Woodstock, founded in 1163, a spanking clean, lovely village that is eminently visitable in its own right. Its shops, replete with local products like woven goods and pottery, are delightful, its inns appealing and its pubs cozy. In the oldest section are the picturesque homes of glove makers (one will remember that Shakespeare’s father in nearby Stratford was a glover by trade).

The town hall of Woodstock, dating from 1766, the Market Place, the Bear Hotel (which traces its history to the 13th century) and Fletcher’s House, now the Oxfordshire County Museum, are worth examination. Among the interesting exhibits in the last are a pair of gloves presented to Elizabeth I during a visit to Oxford in 1566.

The noble Georgian facades that mark the features of the old town give Woodstock a definable air of graciousness and dignity. Actually, the present favorable appearance of the town stems from the remodeling in 1704 when the Royal Manor was granted to the First Duke of Marlborough. Luckily no fast-food emporia or other modern architectural travesties mar the ambiance of a village among the most agreeable in the United Kingdom.

Luckily, Woodstock is within easy reach of London by car. But if one wishes, he can entrain to Oxford and then take a bus over the negligible distance to this royal borough and its storied Palace of Blenheim (the name deriving from a decisive victory by Churchill over the French).