A spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.
Emma Coleman-Jones draws trees. In all seasons. In all weathers. Come blazing heat, bitter cold, rain, snow or high winds she will be out in the elements, sketchbook in hand looking for that serendipitous moment in time and place when something catches her eye.
I’ve always found something earthy and unpretentious about this form of entertainment, thought to have arrived here from Flanders, the word derived from the French ‘Morisque’ meaning ‘dance’. Played out away from the stiff ceremonials of the University, the Quarry side is part of an age-old social ritual unconstrained by the conventions of the highbrow institution down below. Indeed, the part played by the ‘fool’ with his inflated bladder on a stick used to berate the other dancers was itself a playful mockery of the sticks used by officialdom; for these are festivities created by working people, to take a break from the day job, seizing the chance to let their hair down. Washed down with large quantities of local ale.
Don’t make the mistake I made, and call it tapestry. That is woven on a loom. This is canvas work, beautifully designed, meticulously hand stitched on to church furnishings, vestments, banners and the like. There’s a lot of gold. The old stuff: real gold leaf wrapped around a central thread, its modern equivalent synthetic, shinier, a touch more bling maybe but just as handsome.
This month we are raising a glass to ten years of clean energy produced by the island’s hydro-electric power station. Owned by the locals it is the latest in a long line of ways by which for centuries they have harnessed the power of their most valuable resource.
I’d been invited by Alan Trinder to watch him fly. “I’ll be at Port Meadow between 7.30 and 11.30 in the morning,” said the email he sent the night before.…
The rather crumpled picture above is the only one I have of my mother somewhere on her remarkable journey to the other side of the world in 1950. Exactly 75 years ago.
Just over a week ago, on April 23rd to be exact, I joined a jolly parade of University and City dignitaries robed in a fine collection of scarlet, fur and velvet…
I’d arranged to meet Richard Lawrence at his studios in Hurst Street, a short cycle ride east from Oxford’s Magdalen Bridge. There’s a yard at the front, so disconcertingly full…
On a sunny day last week, I take advantage of the weather to embark on a walk along a stretch of the River Cherwell suggested by my friend Bea. Starting…
The undergraduates had been intending to spend the day playing cricket, tennis or on the river rowing. But such was Ruskin’s power of persuasion that he convinced them to not only attend his lecture instead, (he was one of those rare academics who could fill a lecture theatre at 9 a.m.) but to sign up for a project that he believed would put their physical prowess to more purposeful use. Building a road.