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.