I went to find the great Jim Clark's final resting place but the neglected site feels like an insult, writes OLIVER HOLT

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I went to find the great Jim Clark's final resting place but the neglected site feels like an insult, writes OLIVER HOLT

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Few pass this way any more. A path once followed the bank of the stream that flows sullenly and noiselessly through the woods. But it is barely visible now. Tall, gangling weeds choke it and obscure it. Footsteps have not flattened them. It is raining, as it was on that day in April 1968 and even though the army of trees and the dense undergrowth hide them from view, the sound of race cars hurtling around the Hockenheimring half a mile or so away echoes through the forest like an elegy.
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