The Other Place

... is how we folks from Cambridge famously refer to Oxford. The same, I believe is how thy refer to us. No matter. It is now more than forty years since I visited this "other place," and figured that it would be worth the extra leg of journey on our way to London from Cirencester...

But first, the usual 6 AM pilgrimage out to the train station to see Hugo off and give him a farewell hug. It will be a while before we have the chance to see him again. Have I mentioned that he's a charming lad? And handsome? And talented? The English are strictly forbidden by ancient law from saying of thinking anything nice about themselves or their immediate family. But surely a great-uncle, particularly one tainted by long years in America, is permitted to do it for them? I only regret that I did not think to take more photographs.

And then there was a little farewell ritual with Flora. She had been holding on to an exchange of letters between the two of us in harder times and had me take a look at them. Between us. we agreed that they had little to do with the present moment and needed no attachment from either one of us. But they were important enough to need something other than simply tearing up and discarding in the waste basket, so we took the fragments out to a lovely spot in Flora's garden, placed them in a ceramic pot that she herself had made, and set a match to them. It was a moving moment, to stand and watch this old history purified in the flames.

At our age, it is not easy to say goodbye. Travel becomes less easy, and the years fly past. But the moment came, we said a rather tearful goodbye--I speak for myself--and backed the little Yaris out perilously for the last time into Coxwell Street. We took the Cotswold country roads through Bibury and Burford (with a thought for Jenny, my former sister-in-law; sad to miss her, but we did not even have a telephone number) and joined the main A4o to get to the Pear Tree Park-and-Ride for Oxford.

Well, I hesitate to sound prejudiced or snobby, but I actually prefer the other "other place"--my own. I'm sure that Cambridge, like Oxford today, has been inundated with tourists. I'm equally sure that, like Oxford, it has more than its share of MacDonalds and Pizza Huts and Burger Kings and Starbucks--not to mention The Gap and other chains. But Cambridge does feel more open and spacious to me, more of a college town, with its central market square, its lovely Backs and its fabulous King's Parade, its colleges gathered more or less along a single route. Last time I was there, the colleges were also more welcoming and open to visitors. Here in Oxford, you were lucky to get a glimpse through into the first quad from the porter's lodge...

Perhaps that, too, has changed at Cambridge. Even the Oxford version of the Bridge of Sighs...

... (both universities boast a replica of this Venice landmark) is different; unlike its Cambridge counterpart, it crosses no water, just a dry, paved street.

But enough of these tiresome prejudicial quibbles. I'm sure I have annoyed enough people by now. We did enjoy our time wandering the back streets and the main streets of this great university. We enjoyed our visit to the science museum...

with a special exhibition of its collection of oddities and eccentricities. We enjoyed mugging in front of fine old buildings: here's Ellie, by what I believe to be the Divinity School...

...and again, in the back alley that leads to a famous tavern...

And myself, preparing for lunch at what purports to be the oldest coffee house in the kingdom...

With the prospect of a fairly long drive back through London traffic to Islington, we left the city toward mid-afternoon on the park-and-ride double decker. (At this point, Latin scholars--and others--might enjoy this 1914 ode to the Motor Bus by A. D. Godfrey. As this picture shows, it's as appropriate today as it was back then, when motor buses first appeared on English streets.)

We fired up the trusty Yaris and our GPS, Gertie, for an uneventful, relatively easy journey back to the flat. A long walk down the rather drab Holloway Road to the local Waitrose market to pick up a few supplies for supper--an unpretentious affair of soup and good English cheddar cheese. Lacking a television set in the flat, we switched on the laptop and found an episode of MI-5 to watch. Over here, it's called "Spooks"--an unacceptable title, it seems, in sensitive America. We have a little mouse who scampers around here in the evening. Ellie lets out the traditional "Eek!" whenever she sees him, but he does no harm.

And off to bed.