UK Day 5-- Oxford -- Leeds
This morning, I boarded a completely empty bus from a cold and lonely street and waved goodbye to Oxford.
Oxford, Oxford, called the "sweet city of dreaming Spires" by the poet (and Oxford student) Matthew Arnold, and at first glance it is not difficult to see why: spires and towers dot the landscape, and the buildings are pleasant and dignified. I've already given my initial impressions of Oxford, now, like a newlywed who after the initial exhilaritating wedding night starts becoming acquainted with her partner's habits, let me try to talk about Oxford in the sober light of the morning.
For Oxford is not uniformly lovely; there are places, like the tacky tourist signboards that blemish the gates of Christchurch, or some positively ugly signboards along Cornmarket street, where the old buildings have only uncomfortably accomodated new developments; others, like Gloucester Green or the area around Westgate Shopping Centre, are distinclty pedestrian and ordinary. Staying in Oxford for four days, crossing and criss-crossing its streets, hurrying through the cold from one place to another, some of the initial charm is lost.
But Oxford can surprise you with its loveliness. On my second day there I spent an afternoon wandering around its alleys, visiting colleges, walking through parks and meadows, finding cafes. I spent another two seperate afternoons wandering through the extensive and fascinating Ashmolean, admiring Dinosaur bones and live cockroaches at the Natural History museum -- but these were not breathtaking, nor were they truly marvels to behold. No, the beauty of Oxford lies in an understated grace and dignity, an elegance leant to it by the -not majestic, not awe-inspiring- but solid and fundamentally pleasing university and town buildings, the grandeur of Trinity, of Christchurch, the authentically ancient few of Keble, the stately air of the Ashmolean, the wide and lovely University Parks. Other than the few exceptions, this is an old town that has by and large learnt to live with the new, and present a pleasant face to the world.
But I was talking about it's suprising loveliness-- walking through an unremarked and un-advertised district, the Little Clarendon, I was entranced by the neat and leafy rows of suburban middle-class houses, and the friendly cafes and restaurants along its avenues. Oxford is a fairly small and compact city (more a town actually), but within its confines there are several well-stocked and delightful bookstores (Blackwells! Albion Beatnik!), many excellent cafes where one can sit down and get a good drink while enjoying a book, the staff are pleasant and friendly, the avenues and meadows peaceful and pastoral. By the end of my fourth day I was feeling comfortable and at ease, and this is the atmosphere of the city -- one that, after some struggling and indecision, has settled into its own skin: but not in a tired and end-of-life manner, no, with confidence and brightness, assurance in its academic excellence and future.
On my last night I had a massive serving of Fish and Chips at an ordinary diner, there I watched a screening of Godzilla while beside me sat a man, gnarled and wrinkled, mud on his boots, chomping at a pizza: and I have rarely felt so comfortable, or happy, elsewhere, watching a mythical Japanese beast rampage through New York City, reading Jan Morris' A Writer's World , and working my way through a large and delicious fried cod.
Oxford, Oxford, called the "sweet city of dreaming Spires" by the poet (and Oxford student) Matthew Arnold, and at first glance it is not difficult to see why: spires and towers dot the landscape, and the buildings are pleasant and dignified. I've already given my initial impressions of Oxford, now, like a newlywed who after the initial exhilaritating wedding night starts becoming acquainted with her partner's habits, let me try to talk about Oxford in the sober light of the morning.
For Oxford is not uniformly lovely; there are places, like the tacky tourist signboards that blemish the gates of Christchurch, or some positively ugly signboards along Cornmarket street, where the old buildings have only uncomfortably accomodated new developments; others, like Gloucester Green or the area around Westgate Shopping Centre, are distinclty pedestrian and ordinary. Staying in Oxford for four days, crossing and criss-crossing its streets, hurrying through the cold from one place to another, some of the initial charm is lost.
But Oxford can surprise you with its loveliness. On my second day there I spent an afternoon wandering around its alleys, visiting colleges, walking through parks and meadows, finding cafes. I spent another two seperate afternoons wandering through the extensive and fascinating Ashmolean, admiring Dinosaur bones and live cockroaches at the Natural History museum -- but these were not breathtaking, nor were they truly marvels to behold. No, the beauty of Oxford lies in an understated grace and dignity, an elegance leant to it by the -not majestic, not awe-inspiring- but solid and fundamentally pleasing university and town buildings, the grandeur of Trinity, of Christchurch, the authentically ancient few of Keble, the stately air of the Ashmolean, the wide and lovely University Parks. Other than the few exceptions, this is an old town that has by and large learnt to live with the new, and present a pleasant face to the world.
But I was talking about it's suprising loveliness-- walking through an unremarked and un-advertised district, the Little Clarendon, I was entranced by the neat and leafy rows of suburban middle-class houses, and the friendly cafes and restaurants along its avenues. Oxford is a fairly small and compact city (more a town actually), but within its confines there are several well-stocked and delightful bookstores (Blackwells! Albion Beatnik!), many excellent cafes where one can sit down and get a good drink while enjoying a book, the staff are pleasant and friendly, the avenues and meadows peaceful and pastoral. By the end of my fourth day I was feeling comfortable and at ease, and this is the atmosphere of the city -- one that, after some struggling and indecision, has settled into its own skin: but not in a tired and end-of-life manner, no, with confidence and brightness, assurance in its academic excellence and future.
On my last night I had a massive serving of Fish and Chips at an ordinary diner, there I watched a screening of Godzilla while beside me sat a man, gnarled and wrinkled, mud on his boots, chomping at a pizza: and I have rarely felt so comfortable, or happy, elsewhere, watching a mythical Japanese beast rampage through New York City, reading Jan Morris' A Writer's World , and working my way through a large and delicious fried cod.