I had been invited to join the congregation of the Church of St Michael at the North Gate (SMNG) in an age-old custom called ‘beating the bounds’ or sometimes ‘perambulations’ or ‘going a ganging’. In the days before maps and title deeds, when the parish was the basic unit of taxation and local government, it was important that people knew which parish they lived in and where the boundaries began and ended.
Once inside you are immediately transported into a painted ivy clad walled garden, set in the English countryside with summer skies and well-tended flowerbeds. The architecture of the windows, doors and vaulted ceiling are cleverly incorporated into the pictorial rich scheme, white arched recesses framing the colourful narrative of Mary’s life. Here is portrayed her birth to elderly parents, her betrothal to Joseph, the Annunciation, the Nativity, as well as the family’s flight to Egypt, her crowning as Queen of Mercy, and her Dormition, the ‘falling asleep’ or leaving of her earthly life.
It’s at this dead time of year that the stuff becomes suddenly visible. When the leaves have fallen from the trees, revealing what appear to be giant birds’ nests perched amongst the fragile beauty of the bare winter branches. But these hanging baskets of vibrant green foliage are in fact huge balls of mistletoe. Magically, mysteriously, bearing fruit even through the shortest and darkest days of the year.
Anne Elliott has just begun her busiest time of year. Indeed over the next month everyone and their uncle will be wanting what she has to offer. Now aged 78…
I was delighted to be invited to meet Chris Raworth at his workshop in Middle Barton, catching him just after he had assembled his set of gallopers. A tall man with a shock of white hair he can barely contain his excitement as he opens the door into a long garage lined with benches overflowing with mechanical parts and crammed with boxes painted with brightly coloured signwriting instantly recognisable as that of the fairground.
Bring out the mustard, dish up the mayonnaise, keep ketchup at the ready. For today I am both astonished and delighted to be celebrating the second anniversary of The Oxford Sausage. Publishing a weekly Oxford Sausage story for two years makes for over one hundred of the things. Several strings I’d say and enough I’d hope to make the party go with a bang. You are all invited.
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.
What I hadn’t fully understood was this was to be an immersive Christmas experience. For Cordelia doesn’t do this season by halves. First, I am treated to a tour of her Christmas crib collection. She has 74 of them.
There’s a real physicality to Catherine’s work, all that lifting, and mixing, rolling and cutting alongside the heat of the oven; there’s a dexterity of hand that’s needed and an understanding of the inherent quality and character of the ingredients she is shaping.
Oxford is a city of doors. Big doors, tiny doors, doors within doors. There are grand fortified gateways to colleges built to keep the townsfolk out, and plain doors with…