"I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all. . . like an opera." William Butler Yeats said this about Oxford, and I am inclined to agree. Well, maybe not about the singing part. It was raining pretty hard, and no one except Fred Astaire actually sings in the rain. Oxford has been my English home-away-from-home since I studied abroad there the summer after my freshman year at St. Bonaventure, so of course I had to make a trip farther afield to visit the old stomping grounds.
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| I didn't take this photo, but isn't it cool? |
Getting to Oxford from London is quite easy: just hop the misleadingly-named Oxford Tube bus from Victoria station, settle in for an hour and a half, and it drops you right off at the high street. Simple! No trip to Oxford would be complete without a stop at the Eagle and Child, a delightfully cozy little pub where J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and the rest of "The Inklings" are said to have discussed their writing over a pint back in the day. It was also a favorite hangout of ours when I studied at Somerville, so a visit to Oxford would not have been complete without it. Not to mention, they have a pretty excellent selection of house cask ales and seasonal brews to accompany their rib-warming pies and entrees. Shepherd's pie with a nice pint of bitter on a cold, rainy afternoon? Yes, please!
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| okay, I didn't take this either. Still, eye candy! |
After lunch, we took a meandering stroll through the winding streets of the city, taking in the breathtaking architecture of the 38 colleges that make up Oxford University. The soaring towers, flying buttresses (I love that word), ornate scaffolding and grimacing gargoyles all make for some quality oggling, even if it is a bit misty. That's the thing about Oxford: its uneven cobblestone streets, cramped alleyways and hidey-hole pubs are comfortable and welcoming, even amidst all the pomp and circumstance of Trinity College, King's College, the Bodleian Library and other shi-shi institutions. Sure, you can find your share of stuffy-looking professors and snobby students bundled in pretentious college-colors scarves, but the occupants are decidedly more relaxed than Londoners: you won't find the uptight fashionistas in stilettos stumbling along the stones, nor the frenetic atmosphere for which Central London is known. No, the pace of Oxford is slower, more stately, and infinitely more welcoming than the nearby metropolis.
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| The blackboard lists the cask ales and selections of the season |
My compatriot and travel companion decided Oxford would make a great place for a haircut, so I sat and read British Cosmo in a salon for a bit while she got her locks chopped. We also stopped in a sporting goods store so she could buy a basketball. Not exactly your typical tourist activities, but we're not what you would call typical tourists. Once we got tired of wandering around (and thirsty for another pint), we ducked into Turf Tavern, tucked away down a winding alley under the Bridge of Sighs. They have an excellent selection of house ales, bitters and lagers, so we took the opportunity to sip a nice dark brew and rest our feet for a spell. It was a two-beer kind of day.
Poet Matthew Arnold called Oxford "home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs and unpopular names and impossible loyalties" and I'd have to agree with at least the last. I don't know anyone who's spent any significant amount of time in Oxford and not come away in love with the place. I know I am, and I'm definitely glad I grabbed the chance to go back.
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