The 35 years between Lloyd finishing his symphony and its being performed were extreme in their difficulty even by the standards of struggling composers. Musical tastes had changed, as exemplified by the justified admiration of Benjamin Britten. Lloyd used to say Verdi was his "god". He wrote, unashamedly, tunes: big, beautiful tunes. His nearest comparator in British music of the time was probably Malcolm Arnold. But, unlike Arnold, Lloyd could not get his music performed. He wrote an opera for the Festival of Britain in 1951 that was under-rehearsed and whose performance was a disaster. On the verge of another breakdown, Lloyd forsook composing. He and his wife settled in Sherborne and set up a successful market garden, growing carnations and mushrooms, but he continued to write, and by the early 1970s there were eight symphonies.

He had, however, been blacklisted by William Glock, the narrow-minded snob who ran the Third Programme, so the BBC's patronage and exposure were closed to him. In the 1970s the pianist John Ogdon discovered Lloyd's music and was determined to have it played on what was, by then, Radio 3. He sent the 8th Symphony to the network without saying whom it was by. Only when it had been scheduled for performance, and it was too late to change anything, did he reveal the composer was Lloyd. His rehabilitation had begun.

The day after I heard the first performance of the 4th I went to every record shop in Cambridge trying to buy it, or anything else by Lloyd, of whom I knew nothing—this was before the internet. I drew a blank. It was as if he didn't exist. Then, about two years later, I was browsing in a record shop in London and found the three Lyrita discs of the 4th, 5th and 8th Symphonies: I bought them and raced home to listen to them. The sleeve notes solved some of the mystery, telling the story I have retailed here.

When I joined the Daily Telegraph in 1986 I asked Alan Blyth, its chief music critic, whether he knew Lloyd. "He's a funny old boy," he said, and gave me his address. 

I wrote and requested an interview. A month later, my telephone rang. "My name is George Lloyd. You wrote to me." I stood up, which seemed only right. "You want to meet me. Are you a music critic?" I told him I was a leader writer. "That's all right. I hate critics. What are your politics?" I told him I admired Mrs Thatcher. "So do I. You can come and see me." 

I went at 3pm one afternoon to a mansion flat near Baker Street station and left at about 11pm. We talked about his whole life, his composition, his literary and political interests, his war. It was the start of a friendship that lasted until his death in 1998.

George was a genuinely great man. He overcame adversity and prejudice to give the world the music he felt in his heart. I must have listened a thousand times to his 4th symphony and it continues to overwhelm me, for all sorts of reasons. Amid your excursions into Wagner, Verdi and Britten, treat yourself to Lloyd's 4th and you, like me, will wonder where he has been all your life.