The inside of the Abbey is warm and quiet. Outside, a fresh breeze whistles through the scattered tombstones and the grey sky gazes down with a cold greeting. The two youngers seem okay, but Eldest is shivering. We won't be outside for long; Philpott's Tea Rooms quaintly beckons from the edge of the churchyard, and will shortly provide a friendly and welcoming lunch.
But first, I walk to the compost pile next to the Garden of Remembrance and pluck from its tangles a small bunch of slightly withered flowers. We stroll briskly to the rear of the Abbey, and I lay the fading bouquet upon the grave of our last English King, buried here in 1066.
'Next time, Harold,' I tell him, 'Remember to duck.'