Here are some more nice things to look at, taken over the past few days.

The Bodleian Library

Oxford's version of a back alley

The Magdalene Bridge, complete with punts

On the way to the top of the University Church

Radcliffe Camera

All Souls College

Oxford

Oxford

Just above the clock is where the viewing deck is

My first great pub discovery. Complete with wood-panelled walls, low ceilings and dim lighting.

I had to write this down as soon as possible so I didn't forget any details.

Yesterday I was heading off intent on having another aimless wander around Oxford’s downtown and after consulting one of the many maps I have, I noticed a small trail leading across the River Cherwell that would lead me downtown via the river as opposed to the street. Intrigued, I set off and soon found it was a very pretty trail, following the edge of the river which was very high and rushing with a determined force. I laughed at the Brits for their biblical predictions of flooding following the snow, but it turns out there is some merit to their claims, although I maintain it had more to do with the rain we’ve had than the snow. I followed the trail for a few minutes before coming to a fork. One way was completely submerged, and the other way was under water for a short distance before rounding a corner past which I couldn’t see. I was hardly feeling keen to get my feet wet only to find that the trail I couldn’t see was just as submerged, so, disappointed, I turned back. However, this disappointment did not last for long. Call it karma or fate or whatever, as luck would have it a short, spry old man with curly white hair and a beard to match was walking toward me. I informed him that the trail was flooded and that he would have to turn back. In hindsight I could have nodded and kept walking, leaving him to make the decision for himself, but my conscience won out and I spoke up. I’m so glad I did.

As soon as I had told him to turn around, the man (whose name I never got) expressed his disappointment and immediately launched into a tale of a time he and his wife had been hiking in the Wye Valley in August (on one of their many walking vacations) and the trails were flooded out. He told me he had to walk ahead of his wife with a big stick testing the depths of the water as it rose to around their waists. Apparently his wife is rather short, and was in quite a state about their relentless push onwards. He told me that they had to cross rope suspension bridges that were quite perilous, and that his wife, again was nervous. I could tell that this man was not the sort to turn down a challenge or an adventure, and as he told me these stories I couldn’t help but think that he probably would have been happy to cross through the submerged trail I told him to avoid. But at this point I was too eager to hear more from him, so we kept walking. We turned and headed for the downtown, which luckily is where he was headed too. When I told him I was only here for a few months he (like so many other people I know) began telling me places to go. He told me Cornwall and the Lake District couldn’t be matched for natural beauty, and that I must go to Edinburgh. He and his wife had lived in Glasgow for a couple of years, as he worked as an engineer. When I told him I had been to Stratford, he nodded and then expressed a kind of disdain for it. He finds it too commercial and touristy, and recommended that I visit the smaller Cotswold villages (like Minster Lovell and Burford) to get a better sense of the beauty and regional character. He was pleased to hear that the smaller villages were the places I had enjoyed the most on our day trip. He was likewise pleased to hear that I was planning on doing lots of hiking when the weather allowed, and I was offered a cornucopia of good walking routes, only some of which I remember. In the UK, he said, there is an incredible variety in the landscape. Doing a day hike will take you through many different regions, and there is always something new to see. He also recommended that I walk rather than cycling, and I agreed, walking is the only way to feel a sense of immersion in your surroundings. As for the car, well “they’re useless” he said. And again, I agreed. By the time I told him I was taking landscape architecture in Canada, and I outlined my courses here, he was beaming and sparked up with all sorts of palaces and gardens that I had to visit. He told me that as an engineer in Oxford he had been in charge of evaluating the energy efficiency of historic homes, and during the process had developed an interest in them. By this time we were in the heart of the city and we reached a point where he finally had to stray from my route. I told him what a pleasure it was to have talked with him, and he grinned, told me he had had a great time, and shook my hand.

Call it fate, or karma, whatever, but for the rest of the day I was in the kind of high spirits that not even the rain could dampen. I went to a pub to do some reading and I found myself fighting that giddy grin again. It is a wonderful thing to have those kinds of one-on-one exchanges with real locals. I had been told the Brits were a friendly bunch, and now I can say without a doubt it’s true. I can only hope that when I am an old man, I can be as cheerful, chatty, and as genuinely happy as the man I met. Maybe I was never meant to know his name, maybe I was meant to just have this one perfect walk before parting ways, each of us bringing a little bit of joy to the other. This mysterious Englishman, a true kindred spirit, has left a great impression on me, and I don’t think I could forget him if I tried, but I had to write this all down just in case.

Minster Lovell Hall

A Cotswold Farm

Minster Lovell Church

Burford

Stratford-upon-Avon

My first complete weekend in England is now in the books, and an eventful one it was. In the sense that Saturday was eventful, Sunday wasn’t much to write home about other than the Skype call home of course. It was lovely to finally see some familiar faces. But you don’t want to hear me gush about how much I love my family, that should be assumed by now anyway, and I will thusly move on to transcribing the events of the Saturday past.

Much should be said for rising early. I am not one to inflict this torture on myself voluntarily, however when it is forced upon me, I really do quite enjoy it. After the first few minutes of agony passed, I was glad to find myself walking the pretty path across campus at 8:30 in the morning to catch the coach bus. The campus and park near my residence are wonderful places in morning. While the buildings and trees are cloaked in a dewy haze, the birds relish the chance to belt out a song into the misty silence. I suppose the joy of the morning walk was aided by the fact that it was my first truly sunny day in England, but the point is, I was in a very pleasant state of mind as I stood with the crowd of international students awaiting the bus.

Saturday was a full day, and upon leaving Oxford, we headed toward the small Cotswold village of Minster Lovell. Apparently it had been totally abandoned after the booming wool industry of the region collapsed, but thankfully, it was abandoned so hastily (people really just picked up and left without bothering to demolish anything), that when it came time to restore the town, most of the original buildings remained. The result is a picturesque cluster of cottages that are now occupied by some of the wealthiest media executives in England. Of course this is a broad generalization, but I think it speaks to the difference between the wealthy in England and the wealthy in Canada. The rich in Canada buy houses somewhere far away (“How choice would it be to own a villa in Italy?” they might muse), while the rich in England buy modest, thatched-roofed cottages in the countryside. It’s a strange comparison, and I think if I were to win the lottery, I would go the thatched cottage route, maintenance be damned. Anyhow, Minster Lovell is beautiful, nestled in a quiet valley by a river in the Cotswold hills, but the piece de resistance, is Minster Lovell Hall. The hall is a ruin of a once-spectacular country estate from Medieval times. It is haunting and beautiful and it was appropriate that we arrived in time to wander the ruins in the same subdued morning atmosphere as I described earlier.

After Minster Lovell, we were off to the town of Burford. Though much larger than Minster Lovell, Burford is just as charming, with lovely old stone buildings lining the sloping High Street. Like Minster Lovell, it is nicely nestled in a valley next to a river. So far, of the towns I have seen, there is never a sense that they are escaping their confines and beginning to sprawl like so many Canadian towns are wont to do. Streets follow no logical “grid” pattern, there is no imposed order on the landscape, instead streets follow a river, or all congregate at a square, or follow a ridge etc. The result is a cozy, jumbled mess that is perfectly appropriate for its rural setting and by design, fosters a strong community atmosphere. Such is my impression of Burford. I predict multiple and frequent returns there.

We then drove along a ridge to the Rollright stones, which are a collection of monoliths (for those who haven’t taken History of Cultural Form, a monolith is a pompous word for big rock). There is an old stone circle called the King’s Men, one called the King’s stone, and a cluster of three called the Three Knights. As you may have assumed, the stones are steeped in myth, and the legend is that a King was turned to stone by a witch, who then proceeded to turn the King’s knights and men into stone too, for good measure. It seems like overkill to me, but who’s going to argue with a witch who has a thing for stone? The answer is nobody argues, because arguing gets you turned into stone. Maybe the best part of the Rollright Stones was the vantage point we found ourselves on. It offered a spectacular panoramic view of the Cotswold hills that have been declared an “Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty” for good reason. The Cotswolds are typified by gently rolling expanses of quilted hills, patched with woods and towns and stitched with seams of clipped hedges and drystone walls (How’s that for prosaic excess?). They represent everything I pictured in the stereotypical “British countryside”.

After we had had our fill of rocks and ridiculous myths, we were finally off to our main destination of Stratford-upon-Avon. The “upon-Avon” means that the town is located on the River Avon. If applied to cities I know, we would have places like Guelph-upon-Speed, Belleville-upon-Moira, and Ottawa-upon-Ottawa. That last one seems redundant, but I think Guelph-upon-Speed, which could be shortened to Guelph-on-Speed, is an amusing improvement. As a landscape architecture student, one of the things I noticed about Stratford, and this may already be evident by its name, is the importance of the river to the town. In downtown Oxford you would hardly know you were at the confluence of two rivers, one of which is the mighty Thames, but in Stratford-upon-Avon, the river is the social hub. The Royal Shakespeare Theatre is next to the river, there is parkland and trails on either side, and I am looking forward to coming back in the summer and seeing it at its peak time. The priority of the riverfront wasn’t the only difference between Stratford and Oxford. Academia is replaced by drama as theatres predominate instead of colleges, and architecturally, the impressive stone buildings of Oxford are replaced by beautiful Tudor black and white buildings that seem to be taken straight out of Hansel and Gretel. The entire city feels Shakespearean, partly because of its age and class, and partly because there is either a theatre or souvenir shop on every street.

As a side note, I felt deliciously English during our pub lunch in Stratford. We sat facing a TV showing Manchester City vs Stoke City, and I dined on bangers and mash with a pint of Guinness. Needless to say, I was quite full, Guinness is basically a meal in a can.

Finally, what started as a disappointment turned into an interesting exercise in restraint. I discovered in the morning that I had left my memory card for my camera at home. This meant I had memory capacity for a paltry five pictures. I took, and subsequently deleted many, and the result is a fairly good collection of the images I want to remember from the trip. I am usually a compulsive picture taker, but on this day I was selective, which is why I only have five pictures to show you.

Saturday was the first of hopefully many great day or two-day trips that I will take during my semester here, and if they can all be as fruitful and memorable as the trip to Stratford and the Cotswolds, I will have done well.

Here are some more pretty things.

Row houses on the outskirts

Just one example of the gems you find in the back alleys

Bridge of Sighs

Broad St.

As I mark the one week anniversary of my arrival in England, I shall share some of my opening impressions of the country, and the city that I now find myself a part of.

1) Brits neither like, nor are capable of dealing with, snow.

Starting soon after landing at Heathrow, and travelling into London the people’s aversion to snow was obvious. We saw the lame attempt at snow removal, which consisted of salting the hell out of the sidewalks without really moving any snow. The result was a salty, slushy mess, that – when frozen overnight - created a much more hazardous surface the next morning. This led to more salt, and the cycle of futility continued. It was also clear that the fashions of the day in urban London do not exactly mesh with winter precipitation. Stiletto heels, and dress shoes do not offer much in the way of traction on slushy sidewalks, and though my hiking boots may be considered visually assaulting by the Ralph Laurens of the world, I consider it far more stylish to walk with my head held high than walk like a baby giraffe who is desperately trying to look composed.

Listening to the weather coverage on the TV is another joy. There was footage of people who had abandoned their cars (which were buried in close to 6 inches of snow) and walked to the nearest town to stay the night. Others had written “welcome to hell” in the snow that had accumulated on their town sign. Even today, the Oxford vs. Oxford Brookes soccer game was cancelled due to the forecast of inclement weather (which so far has been nowhere to be found). It’s a good thing the children have the good sense to enjoy all this glory instead of revel in misery like their parents. The hills around campus have been beehives of activity. And I couldn’t be happier, it’s been quite comforting to have at least a token part of Canada with me.

Best of all though, is not only has a few meager centimetres of snow rendered one of the world’s largest airports completely inert, but now the focus turns to the impending “floods” that will apparently bring the country to the brink of collapse when all this dastardly snow has the nerve to melt. Needless to say, the weather here has been Biblical for the Brits, and rather laughable for me. Which brings me to my next observation ...   

2) The English (as advertised) have a great affinity for talking about the weather.

It seems I have arrived at the perfect time to meet people. At our welcome meeting earlier in the week, one of the heads of the International Student Society told us that all we had to do to strike up a conversation with a local, was to ask their opinion of the snow. Being from Canada I have the perfect icebreaker (pardon the pun) for social situations. I simply say – quite matter-of-factly – that I am used to cold temperatures and snow, and, as long as I’m talking to a person from a milder climate, the reaction is a combination of wonderment, respect and pity.

In Bill Bryson’s book “Notes From a Small Island” (which is hilarious) he says that talking about the weather is a sort of British sport, and something they take great pride in. I know my time here has been brief, but this observation has proved incredibly true.

3) Oxford (as advertised) is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever visited.

I think that judging by my other posts, you could have made this summation yourself, but I thought it was appropriate to reiterate just how amazing this city is. Yesterday I went on a lovely little wander in the city core, getting myself delightfully lost, and discovering all sorts of little nooks and crannies, as well as some of the notable landmarks. I found the iconic Bridge of Sighs, the Bodleian Library, the Radcliffe Camera, and the Oxford Castle all completely by accident. I also found my favourite street in Oxford: Cornmarket St. It’s my favourite partly because of its name, partly because of its buildings, partly because it’s a pedestrian-only street and there is no possibility of looking the wrong way before crossing, and partly because of the great eavesdropping opportunities it affords. I wandered from late afternoon until the sun had set and the snow had begun to fall, veiling the lights of the city in a wonderfully wintry glow. If you have the chance to get yourself lost in a new city, I highly recommend it. You really do unearth all the hidden gems, and you can always find your way back again. Speaking of hidden gems, although it’s not really so hidden on the aptly named Broad St., the best discovery of my walk was Blackwell’s Bookshop.

4) Blackwell’s Bookshop is spectacular.

Although the company has now expanded to more than 40 stores around the UK, the Blackwell’s in Oxford is the original. It looks, feels, and smells like a book store should. I couldn’t find an empty wall in the place, and the Norrington Room in the basement is especially massive, with over 3 miles of shelving. Best of all, the pretentious and invasive aroma of Starbucks coffee is pleasantly absent, leaving nothing to dilute the smell of old paper. It feels like an independent store, and has a charm and personality that cannot be replicated by other corporate chains like Chapters and Indigo. I think that is partly aided by its setting in one of the world’s premier academic and historical cities, but nonetheless, Blackwell’s is a place where I can see myself spending many cozy afternoons.

Finally, for those of you who think that I am just having a merry old jaunt around Oxford without a care in the world: you are mostly correct, but I did have a class today. “Gaia: The Earth as a Living System” seems quite promising, and the professor seems to possess a disproportionate amount of intelligence which means I am bound to learn something. So as of now I am back in the realm of being a student, that bothersome little matter that is a condition of going on exchange. However I am looking forward to all the courses I have signed up for, especially those that promise field trips. Sightseeing as part of mandated course work, what a capital idea!

And now for some visual material. Reading is so overrated.

The Hotel

Hyde Park

London

Marble Arch

Covent Garden

Inside Covent Garden

Piccadilly Circus

The departure

The arrival

Campus entrance

Oxford

Oxford

Oxford

Oxford

Oxford

Oxford

Sorry fans, for the delay between posts. I understand I have quotas to meet, but they will rarely be daily. My sincerest apologies.

The weekend in London was a smashing success. My uncles showed me a great time, we saw many of the iconic sites (Big Ben – for obvious reasons – Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Circus, Covent Garden, Hyde Park, The Princess Diana Memorial, Marble Arch, and the London Eye), and became professionals on the London Underground. We covered a lot of ground, and I got a great first impression of London. It is, in short, a spectacular city full of great public spaces, expansive parks, grand architecture, and the greatest subway system in the world. I am so grateful to my uncles, it was a wonderful start to what I hope will be the experience of a lifetime. I am also grateful that the powers that be had the good sense to paint “Look Right” or “Look Left” at all the intersections. It effectively eliminated both confusion and personal injury. So cheers London, you’re alright.

I am all settled into my residence at Oxford Brookes University (which I will now call Brookes, because it’s easier and who doesn’t love reading fewer unnecessary words – usually I can fill pages with unnecessary words, as many of you know, but I will spare you the pain, and come to think of it this whole explanation is unnecessary so I’ll just get on with the story). We took the confusingly named Oxford Tube (which is a bus) to Oxford on Sunday morning and I met my new flat-mates. One American, one Frenchman and one Italian, and all are nice. Over the course of the past two days I have met more foreigners and I have yet to meet one I don’t like – which is a great luxury.

Since my arrival I have perused the downtown, primarily along the High Street (which I have surmised is the English equivalent of Main St.). Oxford is damn spectacular, and I have never been somewhere so old. There is a cafe downtown – just your everyday coffee shop, no special plaque or “historical building” status – that was established in 1689. As in 178 years before Canada was a country. Such is the nature of Oxford, and I would guess, England and Europe in general. The Canadian idea of “old” is relatively recent to people here. And it’s not as if these 400 year old buildings have crumbled. They are still operational, still immaculate and by every account look to be getting better with age. The stunning beauty evident in even the most ordinary shops (it’s very strange to see a Pizza Hut in downtown Oxford), let alone the Oxford University colleges and churches, is overwhelming. I came here with the stereotypical images of Oxford in my mind: Gothic architecture, students wearing robes, sophisticated people and professors discussing philosophy in every corner. So you can understand why I felt so strange seeing people doing normal things like buying groceries or shopping for other menial, rather ordinary things in a city that is so extraordinary. Walking in Oxford, it’s easy to transport yourself back to a Medieval, fairy tale realm of fantasy, but then a rather dodgy looking fellow talking to himself walks by and you remember where you are. In a way, it’s good because if I got too carried away in the magic of it all, I would probably forget which way to look and get side-swiped by a bus. And then this blog would be really boring. So reality is good. Hell, on my first bus trip downtown, when I first laid eyes on Oxford’s majestic grandeur, the bus radio was pumping MC Hammer’s classic “Can’t Touch This”. So cheers MC Hammer, you’re alright.

And so it begins.

Hello all, welcome to the wonderful interweb account of my travels! A fair warning, if all goes according to plan, this will mostly become a photo gallery of English cities, gardens and castles ... with a few complementary words for good measure. So if that isn't your thing then feel free to take your leave. However, I know most of my adoring readers (particularly my family, and the LA Buddies from Guelph) will be interested so I'll do my best to keep you informed. Below is my first rambling collection of thoughts. More to come.

January 17, 2013

Sitting here in Terminal 3, Gate C33 I should probably make a more concerted effort to look more serious, more like a travelling pro. Everyone else here looks like they’ve been here before, calmly awaiting a plane to fly them over the ocean like it’s not a big deal. But the fact of the matter is: I’m not like them. I’m not a frequent flyer. The concept of being able to jump across the ocean in a matter of hours in a huge, heavy pod with wings, still escapes me. So, I have resolved to not try so hard to hide the giddy smile that spreads across my face every time I look out at the massive British Airways jet that is my ticket to England.

There is something magical about an airport, and for an infrequent traveller like me, maybe it’s because the novelty just hasn’t worn off yet. But I think I’d like to keep it that way. It’s a logistical hub of activity, and a cultural mixing pot, with people from all over the world, going to destinations all over the world. And thanks to the people-movers, you can move through the whole scene and watch it all pass by without the annoying “walking” hassle.

As soon as I entered Pearson, I had a great sense of déjà vu, remembering the high school trip to Madrid, Barcelona and Paris that was my first foray into international travel. It took me to all the wonderful places we went, and the great experience I had. That trip was my travel awakening, and in many ways it is the reason that I took all of 3 seconds to make the decision of exchange over an internship. What an incredible opportunity it is, and I jumped at the chance. To be able to live and study somewhere completely foreign, away from everything I know, and everything familiar, is something that many people never experience. I understand the expense argument, living abroad is not cheap, and during those three fateful seconds I considered it, but then I remembered the incredible joy that I got from my first European adventure, and instantly, any reservations vanished. I knew exchange was what I had to do. And sitting here in the terminal, with my stomach doing somersaults of excitement, and a goofball grin gripping my face, I know it was the right choice.