Like the snow that was heading across the UK, I drifted into Oxford for an overdue visit to my roots. It felt plenty cold enough as winters fingers poked and prodded me, but as well as catching up with family and friends, I managed to rub noses with some dark brooding ales, and take some short, bracing walks.
It was crisp and sunny when I wandered down the Oxford canal tow path from Hythe Bridge Street. The grass area was a popular summer sandwich spot when I worked in a nearby George Street Co Op office as a spotty youth, and even though the Nags Head opposite has changed more times than Dr Who, I could almost taste their doorstep hot sausage sarnies. Narrow boats of many years wear lined the canal bank, many paying for long term moorings. Plump ducks waddled along the grass bank, watched closely by a large friendly cat that hopped from boat to boat with ease – maybe an undercover sea dog? I just wandered as far as the lock and bridge, and many other people were taking a stroll too. I made a mental note to do the full hour plus walk to Wolvercote on my summer visit, several delightful pubs en route will keep me cool.
Oxford keeps changing, not always for the good, lots of my favourite old pubs have gone, so it was nice to visit a revived ancient coaching inn, The Plough at 38 (to use the full new title), in Cornmarket Street. It had been Austin Reed tailors for as long as I could remember but the ground floor is now a bar with home brew ale to come, and the gutted upstairs is becoming a restaurant with a chef who trained under Heston Blumenthal at The Fat Duck. It’s just around the corner from my old haunt, The Three Goats Heads, which is a pale shadow of its old self. The Chequers in High Street was an early watering hole of mine and remains largely unchanged, they helped me to sign off my last night in style with a 6.5 % Broken Dream. It fortified me for the sideways wave of snow that was blasting along the High Street as I left.
Rewinding to earlier in the day, the harsh frost added a white coating to my stroll down from Headington, past the haunting spectre of South Park, where I was tortured by knee deep mud, and flying snowballs on cross country runs from Cheney School. Crossing over I walked through Headington Hill park with its trail of magnificent oaks, pines, squirrels, and robins. The path took me out to Marston Road, I had a brief but mind numbing career with the civil service there, all the buildings have now been swept away for Brookes University’s endless student housing blocks. Over the road and down past the forlorn and deserted Somerset pub, put me on the path into the University Parks. Hedges and trees were a brittle white, and the small brook was glazed over with ice. As I stood on the bridge just before the main park entrance, ducks and geese were bravely taking to the river, and swans swooped majestically to land near their huge nests along the banks.
The Parks were busy with joggers and dog walkers, I found it strange to see the cricket pitch looking as white as an umpires freshly washed flannels. Many a happy hour was passed by myself and friends when the touring international sides played the Combined Universities. We would book the three days off work, load up the cool boxes with beer, and relax in the sun to the soundtrack of willow on leather. I regretted not booking the extra Saturday for my trip, a chance to see Oxford City FC at home. Then the snow came, guaranteeing that match was called off anyway. So the weather was part curse, and part blessing, there’s a special harsh beauty to an English winter, and it is always nice to embrace my home city.
