A tour of Oxford - Part 2

We looked round the gardens in New College. Parts of Harry Potter were filmed here. I can’t remember which bit of which film it was, but a young girl standing nearby heard us talking and filled in all the gaps!

Graffiti is not allowed on the walls of the college unless you win a boat race. There were two such celebrations depicting the year and the team. Underneath one, it read “5 bumps” with a row of decorated oar fins. As we stood there trying to work out what that meant, a student appeared through one of the doors. “Do you know what 5 bumps means?” Sheila asked him. He thought for a moment. “I’m not a rower. But I think it’s how many times they “bump” a boat in front.” Arhh. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome,” he said, and disappeared into another door across the courtyard.

The rearmost garden in the college is surrounded in part by the city wall, which pre-dates it by several centuries. The college founder needed to commit to maintaining it in order to buy the land. Every three years the Mayor and Mayoress of Oxford circumnavigate the wall-top path to ensure that the obligation upheld.

Inside the garden is a decorative mound commissioned by Elizabeth I. Although there are steps to the top it is forbidden to climb them. Around the edge are beds with flowers and shrubs. There were two gardeners tending them today and I left Lisa and Sheila discussing plants while I wandered about further. I know nothing about gardening and I’m afraid the green stuff in my garden needs to be able to look after itself if it wants to survive.

As I wandered back to the three of them, still talking, Lisa spotted a squirrel. “Huh!” said the gardener. “Your cute little squirrels are vandals. We planted 350 tulip bulbs last year. Do you know how many the squirrels ate?”

“249?” I ventured.

“Something like that! We don’t plant tulips anymore.”

Before we left New College, we visited the chapel. Standing opposite the doorway, with his back to the altar but twisting his head round to catch a glimpse, is Epstein’s sculpture of Lazarus. The carved stone folds of the bandages he is wrapped in are very intricate and the closer you study it, the more detail you discover.

On leaving New College, we passed Edmund Halle’s house, with its high up observatory where he studied the comet named after him. Also in that street is Oxford’s Bridge of Sighs, modelled on the one in Venice, decorated more like The Rialto Bridge. Then we were back to Broad Street.

Our last stop was a fairly recent addition to the Bodlean. Inside were two free temporary exhibitions. The first was entitled “Shakespeare’s Death”. It wasn’t actually about his death but about the many ways in which he portrayed death in his plays.

The second contained many historical pieces of writing and some early books with ornate bindings. There was the Magna Carta and the first recognisable map of the UK. There was a draft by Wilfred Owen of his anti-war poem and posters from the Suffrage movement. There was a sketch by J. R. R. Tolkein of Bilbo’s arrival at the Elves’ huts, an early draft of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and many other early examples of writing.

Lisa (www.wanderoxford.co.uk) left us at the entrance of the exhibitions. Our two hour tour had turned into almost three. She had entertained us and educated us, and we had only seen a tiny fraction of the centre of Oxford. Her enthusiasm for her subject was infectious and we caught the bug.

A tour of Oxford - Part 1

The next morning we met Lisa outside the Visitor Information Centre. She and her husband have set up Wander Oxford (www.wanderoxford.co.uk) and offer two-hour free walking tours of Oxford on most days. Her enthusiasm for sharing her knowledge of Oxford cannot be missed. Although she has lived in the area for thirty-two years, this is the first season she has started providing tours and we were her first private tour. Sheila had emailed Lisa in advance and she had adapted the tour so that it was accessible for my scooter. She had also researched the accessibility of various museums and found the most accessible restaurant she could. Zizzi’s in George Street if anyone’s interested.

 

Just along from where we started in Broad Street is a small cobbled square with a cobbled cross in the middle of the tarmacked road. This marks the spot where two Anglican Bishops were burnt at the stake in 1555. They are known as the Oxford Martyrs.

On the roof of Blackwell’s Art and Poster shop is a 7ft iron statue of a naked man. It was designed by Antony Gormley, he of The Angel of the North fame. When it had first appeared there in 2009, it had sparked numerous calls to the local police from passers-by concerned that a man was about to jump of the roof.

A short way further along the street, The Sheldonian Theatre is one of the first buildings to be designed by Christopher Wren. The ornate entrance on Broad Street is actually the back. On the pillars between the railings are heads, each one different. Hidden in the hair of one of them, opposite the door, is a stone wren.

Everywhere you look in Oxford, the buildings are decorated with gargoyles and grotesques. The difference, Lisa told us, is that gargoyles are functional (they usually spout water) and grotesques are not. Either way, they are weird, wonderful and fascinating.

As we moved round towards the Museum of science we looked up. In 2009, a series of crumbling grotesques were replaced with new ones, all designed by children following a competition. Among the nine designs were Tweedledum and Tweedledee, a Dodo, Aslan and Three men in a boat.

In a square around the corner, high up in the stonework, is an image of King James I of England and VI of Scotland in honour of his translation creating The King James Bible. The detail in it is exquisite.

The close by Bodlean Library, Lisa said, is a reading library but not a lending library. Many of the books it contains are too precious. Inside, is a copy of every English language book printed since 1911. Parts of the forever expanding collection are housed in rooms that had once been accommodation and new buildings have been built.

We moved on around the outside of the Radcliffe Camera building with its huge dome, and peered through the gates into the grass square inside Hertford College. High up on one of the walls is an ornate sundial. I was none the wiser as to the time though. There was no sun.

From here is a stone alleyway leading to the High Street in which is the door opposite the one C. S. Lewis staggered from drunk one night. Carved within and around it are images that inspired him to create the characters of Aslan and Mr Tumnus. At the end of the alley is a lamppost. Narnia was born.

In the High Street is The Grand Cafe, the oldest tea shop in England, having opened in the mid 1600s. It’s the place to go for a delicious cream tea. On the building next door is a blue plaque. “Who’s that for?” I asked Lisa. “I don’t know,” she said. “Let’s go have a look.” It celebrates Sarah Cooper who first made Oxford Marmalade there is 1872. “I learn something new every time I do this tour,” said Lisa.

That makes it sound like she doesn’t know her stuff. Don’t believe it! She told me far more about Oxford in two hours than you can imagine. All of it fascinating and delivered in a way that was both enjoyable and easy to understand. 

Next week we go to New College...

Priscilla goes to Oxford

My Auntie Sheila and I went to see Priscilla the Musical last week. In Oxford. Well the tour missed our local theatre so we thought we’d have a couple of days away.

We set off from Essex late morning and sailed round the M25 without problem, not stopping for a break until the services on the M40. As well as the usual suspects there was a Valerie Patisserie. Not only that, it was table service with proper cups and everything. So we had coffee and cake. It would have been rude not too.

We managed to find the Travel Lodge without getting lost. Inside I was pleasantly surprised. Our disabled room was designed with disabled people in mind. What a novel idea! Call me cynical, but I’m more familiar with disabled facilities for able-bodied people. The room was big enough to easily turn my little mobility scooter around. The hangers were reachable from wheelchair height, as were the plug sockets. The bathroom was huge, had plenty of handrails and also a couple of places to put your wash-bag and clothes.

We settled in, had a cup of tea, then went into town to find somewhere to eat before the show. In the same street as the theatre was a Jamie Oliver’s restaurant. The food was beautiful and we felt nicely full.

Time for Priscilla. What can I say? It is a fabulously bonkers feel-good show in the extreme with amazing costumes and brilliant music!

The next day was our private tour of Oxford with a route designed especially for us. Tune in next week...

24th June 2016 - What have we done?

This my fear for the outcome of the EU Referendum.

I make no apologies.

Yesterday we were part of Europe

Today we are an island

Yesterday we were part of the 21^st Century

Today we are back in the 19^th

Yesterday there was democracy

Today, who knows?

Yesterday some of the power was with the people

Today the power is even more with the elite and monied

Yesterday there was humanity

Today there is hatred

Yesterday there was a chance to work together

Today we work alone

Yesterday there was hope for a better world

Today there is none.

What's in a name?

My Mum’s second name is ‘Kay’. According to Mum, my Dad liked it, so I was always going to be called ‘Kay’, even before I was born and they knew whether I would be a girl or a boy. They made my second name Anne which seemed to go well with Kay. My sister has only the one name – Joanne. We used to laugh about the fact that Mum’s cousins were called Doreen and Maureen. But is Kay Anne and Joanne much better?

Of course, growing up I was always known as Kay. Then, in my early 20s I decided that I wanted to use both names and joined them with a hyphen. There are too many reasons why to go into them here. That’s another story for another day. At the same time, Jo began dropping the anne, although I think in her case it evolved rather than was decided.

To begin with, if you dared to call me the wrong name, your head was abruptly bitten off! Now that I have been Kay-Anne for longer than I was Kay, I have mellowed a wee bit. (Emphasis on the ‘wee’.) I allow you to keep your head and you are politely corrected instead.

It still rankles though. I especially get irritated when I tell people my name is Kay-Anne and they immediately call me Kay! Did they not hear me? If I wanted to be called Kay I would have introduced myself as Kay! Don’t do it. It shows a lack of respect I think. If some-one tells me their name is Susan, I call them Susan. I don’t shorten it to Sue, or call them anything else. I don’t have that right. 

In any case, unless I’m looking at you when you call me the wrong name, it’s not even going to register that you’re talking to me. My name is Kay-Anne. Call me that and I’ll be very happy to talk to you.

A Conversation with Terry Waite

My friend, Jo, and I went to a talk last weekend at a local church. In the 1980s, as Special Envoy to the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, Terry Waite had been in Beirut, in civil-war-torn Lebanon, negotiating with the captors of Western hostages. Then one day he had been kidnapped himself.

I had become interested in the plight of the Lebanese hostages during my travels around Australia in 1990/91, when a girl I became friends with talked about them. Her ex-boyfriend had worked with one of the hostages, John McCarthy. Suddenly it became more real, rather than just another item on the news.

When I returned home I continued to follow their plight and rejoiced as they began to be released. Several wrote books about their experiences and I read them all. John McCarthy wrote his with his then girlfriend, Jill Morrell. American, Terry Anderson wrote his with his wife. These also gave the view of the relatives on the outside, not knowing whether their loved one was even alive. Most harrowing was Brian Keenan’s account of the horrors and treatment experienced.

Terry Waite had spent most of his five years of captivity in solitary confinement. He saw no-one, no daylight and was chained, except for ten minutes a day when he could go to the bathroom. He did the only thing he could and kept his mind active by reciting hymns he knew by heart. He wrote stories and a book in his head. He had no paper or pen. Taken on Trust was published three years after his release and will be republished later this year to mark twenty-five years since then, with an extra chapter about his thoughts now.

Terry is a tall and gentle man with an air of calm reassurance and is very approachable. Just before the talk was due to start, I thought I’d best nip to the loo. As I left the church, I was confronted with him on his way in. “Hello,” he said, as if he was greeting a friend. I replied with the first thing that came into my head. “Hello, you’re taller than I imagined.” What was I thinking? What must he think? But he was very gracious in his response. I imagine he was very good in his role as negotiator.

He has almost no anger about what happened to him and bears no grudge against his captors. During the first half of the talk, he spoke about his work with the families of current hostages and with those who have recently been released. The charity he set up following his own release, Hostage UK, is about to become International.

During the break, a lady showed him a newspaper with its front page headline, which she had kept from the day he regained his freedom. He had not seen it before and was clearly touched. It reminded me of how important and wonderful that day had been.

After the break, Terry talked more about how he had come to be captured and what had then happened. At the end there were more questions and answers with the audience than there was time for. He had captivated the attention of the full church for over three hours and nobody wanted him to stop. We could have listened for hours more.

 

 

A little bit of Culture

It was nice to be already in London when I got up the next morning. Over breakfast of a coffee and croissant, I looked out of the window across the road and saw heads wandering about behind what appeared to be a walled garden. On further investigation I discovered it was The British Library. In the middle of the peaceful oasis was a statue of Isaac Newton concentrating on something he was measuring with a mathematical instrument, an empty cafe and the entrance. I didn’t stay long. It was cold and a detour on my way to somewhere else.

Scootering to the pub the previous evening, I had passed a sign saying ‘London Canal Museum’ just before I crossed Regents Canal. I resolved to go there today.

It was a tiny museum in an old ice shed. Until the advent of mechanical refrigeration in twentieth century, ice had been shipped from Norway and stored underground before being distributed around London by canal. You could peer into the depths of one of the storage holes. There was so much ice it stayed frozen for months.

Also in the museum was information about the construction of the canals, and the huge network of them there had been across London and the country. There were stories from many of the barge owners who had worked them. There was half a barge in the museum where it was possible to see the cramped conditions that families lived in. Despite that there had been a community spirit of everyone working together.

From the museum I took a short stroll (scooter) along the canal towpath. It was hard to believe I was in the middle of London, it was so peaceful. There were birds and ducks bobbing on the water and colourful barges moored along the edge. I passed a couple of walkers and cyclists also on the towpath, but mostly I was on my own. When the canal disappeared into the Islington Tunnel it was time to return to the city. I was sorry to leave.

I consulted my map. Nearby was The Charles Dickens Museum so I headed there. The author had lived at 48 Doughty St for two years and was where he wrote Oliver Twist. The house has been preserved as it would have been at that time. It houses a huge collection of his personal books and other belongings and contains the history of both his writing and his social campaigning. If you love Dickens and his wonderful stories, it is a delight to visit. I must just return.