Lord Snowdon, Anthony Armstrong-Jones (7^th March 1930 to 13^th January 2017)

You would expect the man who married the Queen’s sister Princess Margaret to be buried in family tomb festooned with heavy decoration. However Lord Snowdon lies under unmarked soil. He’s just inside the walls of a redundant 13-th century church near Caernarfon. It’s unreachable by car. The closest I could get to it on wheels was on a minor coastal road in Llanfaglan and the views were enough to make me stay for the night.

Before making myself a vegetable burger for supper I walked across a field to reach the churchyard but Anthony Armstrong-Jones’s presence was not remotely evident (he preferred to be called Tony.) Two couples who were walking up and down the headstones asked if I knew where he was buried. “Surely his children would want something to visit,” one woman said. Half an hour later I returned to the motorhome a little disappointed. The views across the bay were so inspiring I thought I’d have a shower, settled in for the night and then watch the stars through my binoculars. With little water I joined some cows in a field and lugged 40+ litres back and pumped it into the tank (it was so dark I couldn’t tell if it was clear.) With hardly power it was a quiet evening. Once the power had drained from my laptop I had no means of entertainment except my imagination and books. Mountain Rescue is across the bay and a helicopter went up at 10pm and headed to the heights of Snowdonia.

The next day I woke at 7am and thought I had the bay to myself but a man was on the beach with red buckets. I’m curious and went out to chat to him. He was collecting winkles and got £40 per bag from a man who exported them to Spain. After breakfast I got chatting to a man walking. This Welsh-speaking local chap saved the day and led me to Lord Snowdon’s unmarked grave in the churchyard. On the outer edges are two white sticks and Tony and his dad lie here. Tony’s grave had a bunch of withered flowers lay on it. The coffin had been brought up to the church by Land Rover and the private affair was attended by a few mourners. There had been a service inside the old church. Somehow I couldn’t see the Queen sat on those ancient pews. She always kept good relations with Tony despite the slightly volcanic marriage to her sister.

I suppose nobody would know who he was had he not married into royalty but he got in their right at the top. I’ve got books on him and he led an active colourful life as a photographer, his bohemian life being an attraction to Margaret whose life was stiff and stuffy. They became engaged in February 1960 and three months later was the first televised royal wedding. Bored witless with the formal life of a royal Tony became one of Britain's top photographers during the sixties. The marriage lasted for eighteen years before they divorced in 1978 having produced a boy and girl. He married again (didn’t work out) and it emerged that Tony’s snake had been out of the bag and had a few misadventures while he’d been courting Princess Margaret. He died at his home in London in 2017 aged 86.

I did a hearty salute before leaving the grave; the polio-ridden chap had always kept himself busy until the end, working as a photographer, making documentary films for the CBS news program "60 Minutes", designing the aviary at the London Zoo and putting together a design for an electric wheelchair. When a hiker appeared in the churchyard and asked where Lord Snowdon’s grave was I said I didn’t know. I returned to the motorhome and as the bay seemed deserted I had a plop in a Morrisons bag outside saying “Sorry Tony” as he was only a hundred metres away (I don’t use the toilet.)

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I parked up on a minor coastal road overloading the bay Tony loved…