A spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.
For so detailed and realistic are the flowers, fruits and foliage carved around the border that they seem as if they are still sprouting and suffused with life, so rounded and realistic that you might feel inclined to reach out and pluck them for the table.
A bright sunny day this week found me heading up Walton Street to St Sepulchre’s cemetery. Sandwiched between a Londis convenience store – with its mops, brushes and buckets of…
This is Hill End Camp, 67 acres of unspoiled countryside four miles west of Oxford, protected by deed of trust for the outdoor education of children. And it is here that I am heading today, 100 years after the first cohort of infants from West Oxford Elementary School arrived by charabanc back in 1926. A pioneering project that championed a belief in the physical and phsycological benefits of being in the ‘great outdoors’, of immersing yourself in nature. And I am delighted to say that it is still going strong.
When Richard Rawlinson died in April 1755, he left instructions in his will that his heart ‘be taken out, enclosed in a silver cup with spirits and put into a black marble urn’. Then, after the rest of his body was laid to rest in St Giles Church in Oxford, this once beating organ was to be taken across the road to be stored separately at his old university college, St John’s.
It is the 2nd February, or Candlemas, the date in the church calendar that marks the end of Christmastide and the beginning of spring. And to celebrate my friend, walking companion and expert in all things flora and fauna has taken me on a jaunt to see Candlemas Bells, more widely known as snowdrops, but so nicknamed after the time of year their delicate drooping heads emerge from the darkness of their frozen winter beds. A great place to see them in profusion, she claims, is not far from Oxford in the gardens of Nuneham House. About which I am secretly thrilled. For this is the resting place of the Carfax Conduit, a proud monument that once stood in the very centre of the city. I’d been keen to take a closer look for ages.
Today I am heading east, up Headington Hill to visit Oxford’s Rumble Museum. I’m intrigued for I had not heard the name before. Yet the place has secured accredited status from Arts Council England on an equal footing with the most famous museums in the city. The Ashmolean may have opened in 1682, is Britain’s oldest public museum and the worlds earliest attached to a university, but the Rumble Museum at Cheney School is the first and currently the only one to be housed in a UK state school.
It is early September in 1649. The feelings amongst the rank and file of Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army stationed in Oxford are running high. It is now nine months since King Charles I was executed, and the promise of a more equal and tolerant society that some expected, has not been forthcoming. This is especially true for a group of highly organised agitators in the army nicknamed the Levellers.
One of the regular activities that perks me up as I claw my way through dull grey January is marmalade making. A couple of weeks into the New Year, crates of the bitter Seville oranges needed in its production (smaller and more pitted than their sweeter counterparts) being to appear in the shops. They are available for a short period only, a couple of weeks if you are lucky. So as Oxford is a city of marmalade eaters you must be quick to secure your basketful of Spanish sunshine, sufficient to fill enough jars to last a good way into the coming year.
Just before Christmas I get a call from my friend Cordelia. She asks if I’d be interested in meeting her by what is affectionately known as the Elijah Terrace on Walton Well Road just north of Jericho. For she wants to explore the story of the Old Testament prophet as told in the magnificent stone carvings that decorate in exquisite detail the lunettes above nine of the first-floor windows here. It is from these that this row of houses has derived its nickname.
It was on the way to have lunch with a friend last week in Summertown that I first encounter the name Elizabeth Jennings. I’d decided to take the scenic route north out of the city along the Oxford Canal. Starting at Hythe Bridge, over Isis Lock, under Walton Well, Aristotle Lane and Frenchay Road Bridges, and then just at the point at which I need to peel off to reach my destination there it is; Elizabeth Jennings Way Bridge, the painted words on the arches of its underbelly part of a fun folk-artsy mural portraying the story of the neighbourhood.