Neither Dorking nor the Abbey

A small procession winds its way to the quiet cemetery on the outskirts of Dorking, the mourners’ footsteps echoing beneath the gentle sweep of Box Hill. The crowd—family, friends, and a handful of admirers—gathers beneath a canopy of lilacs and forget‑me‑not, each bearing a single flower as a token of respect. The narrative opens with a thoughtful meditation on a recent, widely celebrated death, and the heated debate that once swirled around whether the great man’s remains belonged in Westminster Abbey or the humble village churchyard.

From an armchair in a modest cottage, an aging figure watches the ceremony, his senses dimming yet his mind alive with the vigor of his youth. As the funeral coach recedes, the scene shifts to a vivid recollection of the departed’s own lively spirit—his laughter, his beloved dogs, and his habit of strolling the hill with a staff, as if greeting old comrades. The tribute captures the mingling of grief and celebration, hinting at a legacy that will continue to ripple through the countryside and beyond.