The fact that I’ve been remiss these past few days isn’t even my own fault. D. Nix and Mary have scheduled about 27 hours of English fun into each day – no classes, but non-stop travelling, jumping from tube to tube, taking trains, and running down unfamiliar streets. The days have been long, and the UK is in the midst of a mini heatwave. It’s awesome, but it’s also incredibly tiring.
I’m wired now though, and it’s nearly 3 am. I think it’s got something to do with the fact that I actually get to sleep in tomorrow morning, and I’m not anxiously pacing my room, counting down the number of hours I have until my alarm goes off and stressing out over how it’s widdling down. I don’t plan to make so much as a move before noon tomorrow.
The facts: on Thursday, we left early, heading into London on our way to Oxford, the city of dreaming spires (did I just happen to know that’s a legitimate nickname, or did I Wikipedia it? You’ll never know). The city’s got a 1000-year history, with some really cool stone architecture all along the streets, which were indecently filled with bicycles.
It’s a university town, obviously; the University of Oxford is the oldest English-speaking Uni in the world (seriously, how do I know all these facts?), and it’s an impressive sight. Huge in scale, in ambition, and in pretension. There's more to this city than just the comma.
If Hitchcock did a movie called The Bikes, it'd be set in Oxford
It’s a university town, obviously; the University of Oxford is the oldest English-speaking Uni in the world (seriously, how do I know all these facts?), and it’s an impressive sight. Huge in scale, in ambition, and in pretension. There's more to this city than just the comma.
Did it take away from it at all that I popped into the University gift store, along one arched wall of an enclosed stone courtyard, and systematically made fun of everything there? I feel like it all added to the experience. A reprint of The Lady’s Book of Manners (NEVER refuse soup before a meal). A teacup that says “Silence Please” on it (there was a pot too). Women and Hats, a picture book of Victorian women . . . in hats.
After a trip to a fish and chips joint (I went with mussels . . . not the same as home) and one of the biggest bookstores I’ve ever been in, we went to the Oxford Playhouse, where the Kneehigh Theatre Group (check them out, they’ve got a cool approach that is very surrealist and assembled with a fine level of creativity) were touring with a production of The Wild Bride. It was a strange trip – I don’t think anyone slipped acid or DMT into my meal, but maybe they did. Alls I knows is, the play was a story of a guy accidently sells is daughter’s soul to the devil, she runs away, marries a prince, gets kicked out of the palace (again, accidently), finds her own way, and everything ends up working out in the end. Where it gets weird is the dark humour, the eerie lighting and stage assembly, the infusion of live American south blues music (every actor sang and played at least two instruments, and the devil sounded like Chris de Burgh), and the insane costumes and role reversals. Not as good as Faustus (especially since the ending seemed almost too convenient - to get out of a deal with Satan, just punch him a few times), but still a real entertaining afternoon.
Afterwards, we got the whirlwind tour through the city, mainly in the offshoots of the University. We passed Radcliffe Camera, a huge dome that’s part of the Bodleian Library, and took High Street down past Christ Church. Christ Church, or the CC as I imagine no one calls it, is one of 38 colleges of Oxford. I don’t really know what that means (autonomous self-governing corporations within the university – I admit, Wiki is my go-to source), but what I do know is that it was closed, so we had to peak around the ticket guy, and that it was Hogwarts in Harry Potter. That’s a cool addition to a résumé.
By this time, we needed to start retracing our steps back to the train station. I bet a pound that we wouldn’t lose anyone in Oxford, and technically won . . . except mom and dad, AKA our fearless leaders, were nowhere to be seen. When they finally showed up, Don pointed us in the direction of the wrong train; half of us got on, while the rest screamed for them to get off. I must have frightened some poor Oxford scholar (who else goes to Oxford except scholars?), beating on his window with a frantic look on my face and a milkshake in my hand. Everyone made it off, although Terry almost came out in two pieces.
I want to keep going, since I’ve left these moments with enough time to percolate in my noggin. Only problem is my wiredness has pretty much run its course, and I need to lay my head down. There’s plenty more to talk about; I went down in a haunted cave in Wycombe where the b’ys (the Hell-Fire Club) legitimately did satanic rituals and let loose wild baboons back in the day, across the street to the West Wycombe Estate, which could be the most spectacular backyard ever, and then to Bath today, which is possibly my favourite place in the world.
These pictures are my promise that more will come. For now though, it’s time to sleep, and look forward to a day where the most I have to do is read and get out of bed – and no one’s really enforcing the second obligation anyway.
Cheers,
rb
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