Cab to Paddington Station on July 9, followed by a train to Oxford. I have never encountered butterfly bushes growing in the wild before, but we passed hundreds of bushes, heavy with purple blooms, in the most unlikely spots along the tracks. I cannot imagine anyone choosing to plant them there, but they were 10-20 feet tall in some cases, well-established despite my musings as to their appropriate placement.
Every backyard adjacent to the tracks, no matter how humble the home, had its gem of a garden. I have become more determined to follow the European custom of referring to the property at 427 as “the garden” rather than “the yard.” I mean, really, “yard.” Churchyard (ok, spooky). Barnyard. Railroad yard. Stockyard. School yard. Nothing lovely there. On the other hand: "the garden." A lovely prospect. Tranquility and repose. Color and fragrance and peace.
Now all that remains is to work for the rest of the summer to make sure that "the garden” at 427 lives up to its name!
When we arrived at the Oxford rail station, we rolled our three heavy bags over the Hythe Street Bridge to Worcester College. Worcester, like most of the colleges which make up Oxford, is a walled close with a Porter’s Gate, although the kind gentlemen who met us there were nothing like Macbeth’s comic relief.
Worcester College is built on the site of one of the oldest centers of learning in Oxford. In 1283, this was the site of Gloucester College, founded as a place of study by the Benedictines. The oldest surviving buildings here are 13th century “cottages,” each bearing above the door the blazon of the specific abbot who sent seminarians to study here. Worcester College itself was a reincarnation which emerged in 1714 (part of the hiatus in between had to do with Henry VIII’s efficiency in dissolving centers of Catholic learning). The chapel, redesigned in the 19th century, contains each of Darwin’s animal species carved on the ends of the pews. The catalogue of animals includes the dodo (now extinct, except for Alice in Wonderland, also created in this town) and the unicorn, which seems rather puzzling as a Darwinian species. Apparently Oscar Wilde himself commented on the beauty of this chapel although, as our professor rightly wondered, what Wilde was even doing in a chapel remains a mystery.
Passing through the Porter’s Gate area, one emerges into an outdoor cloister which overlooks one of the most incredible feats of gardening and architecture the world has to offer. On the left, the 1242 “cottages.” On the right, the 18th century building where I took class in the lower level Rose Garden Room, opening onto the Provost’s private rose garden. In between, a prize-winning quad of lawn which is mowed every morning in a chessboard pattern, surrounded by glorious borders of lavender, climbing roses draped over medieval and Stuart archways, lilies, and flowers beyond my knowing.
From our 18th century classroom building, at the top of the hill overlooking the quad, we look across to a small, vine-draped archway on the other side of the quad, which leads to another walled garden. Our professor told us that when Lewis Carroll taught here, he looked out the window toward that arch and used it as the inspiration for Alice’s rabbit hole. So of course, all of us whose living quarters are on the other side of this arch have wandered through the rabbit hole each morning on the way to class.
On Saturday the 9th, we settled into our dorm room. Rather more 20th century than medieval, although my comments about Brit bathrooms stand. The dorms are designated by staircases rather than building names. We were staircase 21, room 5, each staircase having 2 rooms on each floor. Very comfortable L-shaped room separating sleeping and studying areas. Al and I have had to take turns with the Ethernet cord, but otherwise it has been wonderful. The man who came in to service the cold water faucet explained to us that the windows, long panes of glass that push outward only about 4 inches, are so constructed in order to prevent intoxicated students from jumping out. Honestly, this had not occurred to us as an option, but then we had not yet begun our studies here.
Al and I walked up the street and around the corner to his college, Oxford University, for his registration. On the way “home,” I roamed a bit and discovered the Oxfam second-hand bookstore, where I bought a commentary on Tom Stoppard’s plays and a bar of dark chocolate for the road. Later, I roamed the gardens and the pond at Worcester. Dahlias, cosmos, noble purple acanthus, exotic red crocosima, some amazing tropical succulent in black, and, of course, the heady fragrance of lavender hidcote. Many years ago, I discovered e e cummings’ poem, which I sent (from the novitiate) on a handmade Mother’s Day card to my mother – and now it came tumbling back to me, a generation later, as a wish fulfilled at Oxford for myself:
“if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses”
Blackred roses and more, an intoxicating garden for walking, sitting, reading, imagining. A gift for the week. And as I intend to recreate recipes from this journey, I hope to recreate a few tiny garden spaces at 427 which will carry me for a precious moment back to this sacred space.
I warned you that the garden maniac would emerge. More about the literature soon. Let’s just transition by noting that on Saturday I had the first of several dinners at the Eagle and Child Pub on St. Giles’ Street. This pub, established in 1650 and used as a playhouse for Royalist soldiers, is now best known as the hang-out, from 1939 to 1962, of the Inklings, a literary “club” including C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, who met at this pub weekly to discuss literature (including Narnia and Middle Earth). The Inklings nicknamed the pub “The Bird and Baby.” On Sunday, Al and I dined there and raised a pint to the Inklings as well as to Meg, who should be, at least, an honorary member of the gang.
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