Oxford

Monday was the first day that dawned without a single cloud in the sky. To take advantage of the clear weather we decided to go to Oxford for the afternoon. I downloaded a walking tour, read up on some of the sites, and we headed out. We arrived without a hitch, but then drove by accident into a private car park and got stuck once the bollard came up and had to wait for someone to come with a clicker to let us out and looked like stupid Americans, but we then finally found the proper lot and walked into town.

Oxford is made up of a bunch of smaller colleges (the smallest college is 500 students) which each have their own courtyard, dining hall, chapel, and pub. We arrived at the first college on the tour and discovered it was $3 a person to walk in. Calculate about 10 colleges and this was looking a bit pricey. Hmmm, this snag was worse than the private car park. But fortunately right then we came across a guy hawking a tour which for the price included access to the 7 colleges or so we would visit. And the best part? The dining hall used for the Harry Potter movies was included. John was sold!

It was a great tour, everything was beautiful, it made me homesick for college days. My favorite part were the gargoyle heads-of-scholars. Afterwards we had tea and scones and then visited the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest libraries in Europe, the first copyright library, and the first to have a catalogue. Did you know books used to be chained to the bookshelf? Terrible for the books, and it meant they had to be put in backwards so the call numbers were written on the face of the cut pages. They've left a few of the books like this so you can see. The best part, though? King Charles II was told that nobody could take a book out of the library and so he had to come down, check in, and read his book at the carrel (still attached to the chain). I like thinking about how tough that librarian must have been!

winter's coming

At the Apple Fayre on Saturday many people were discussing cutting their grass for the last time. Whereas we in L.A. are constantly trying to get the grass to grow, here in wet England, everyone commiserates on how quickly the grass needs another trim. I was surprised they would be talking about a final trim of the season since it has been raining every night keeping the grass lush and green. But the locals clearly have a better sense of the weather. The following morning I noticed there was frost on the ground.

I was a bit chilled as well. The temperature has definitely dropped again, and tends to be in the low 50's, upper 40's. We have to start a fire each evening to keep the house warm enough, and it's always hard to motivate to start dinner because there's no heat in the kitchen (though it warms up quickly enough once I start cooking).

The good thing about the cold weather is that the cows head up to the higher fields earlier to get more sun, so I can now always walk through the large field. The other good thing is that the horses now wear blankets, which they might find embarrassing, but I think is adorable.

the apple fayre

Today I slept until 10:00am, much to the chagrin of my husband whom I pushed out of bed at 5:00am (his alarm doesn't always do the trick). I then had a leisurely breakfast followed by a long shower while John completed his third 2-hour work session of the day. Then, to add insult to injury, I informed John he would need to fix his own lunch while I headed out to the apple fayre at the Oddington Village Hall for a two course meal.

The apple fayre, I found out, is a fairly new tradition in Oddington, and was put together five years ago to raise money for the Village Hall. There were jams, jellies, and chutneys, cakes, pies, and puddings, all donated and for sale. There was apple cider (with 7% alcohol level, I tasted but didn't partake), and bowls made from apple wood (Bob, the woodworker, said they were made from green wood and carved into a flat plate, as the wood dries out, the edges curl up making an unusual bowl!). And there was lunch. I paid my fee to the defacto master of ceremonies, Richard (also known as the man over there in the bright shirt, a shirt his wife made for him and he had never noticed the slightly suggestive ladies lying at the bottom of each palm tree....) and then began to fret, because the menu called for beef stew, and I had visions of dry chewy meat in an inedible gravy. Wouldn't you expect the same at a community-center lunch?

But as I tucked into my plate of stew with potatoes, baby carrots and pees (so British!) I was more than pleasantly surprised. Gordon informed me that the food was sent over from the fancy gastropub in Lower Oddington, The Fox Inn, and just reheated at the Hall. I cleaned my plate. For dessert there was apple crumble with cloves and cream. Soooooo good. At this point I began to feel a bit sorry for my husband. So after making sure I won nothing in the raffle, I said goodbye to the nice people at my table, bought my husband a blackberry and apple pie, and walked home.

rambling

So you may think that I've taken up trespassing, since my morning walk goes through various fields of horses and cows, but it's actually part of the British system. All over town are signs for public footpaths. I was super excited at first, but often it's hard to see where the path actually goes; the grass grows so quickly and gets so tall, that you have to stand at the beginning of the field and just stare for a while until a faint path of slightly more crushed greenery stands out. Also, I've followed paths just to be dumped out on a main road. Now if I had a trail map I'd know where to pick up the trail again, and if I wasn't an overly cautious pregnant lady I might just trek along the road until I found the next footpath. But instead I just turn around and head back the way I came.

Today I started wondering where this system of trails came from, and found a quick history of rambling in Britain (and here you thought my title meant the verbal rambing I do in these posts...). Apparently after the industrial revolution, the British turned to the countryside as a respite from city life. This was all fine and great until the turn of the last century when landlords started getting territorial about their land fearing poachers (heard of man traps?). By the 1930's walking about the countryside was getting almost impossible. Enter the Rambler's Association in 1935, a group dedicated to preserving the British tradition of walking about. They started campaigning against such territoriality.

By 1949, the group had some success, and 10 National Parks were created. On top of that, they went about recording any footpaths that still existed. By the 1960's, a law was passed requiring surveyors to note footpaths when they did a land survey, preserving many of these paths for posterity. Further campaigning forced local Councils to start posting footpath signs.

Finally, in 2000 the Countryside and Rights of Way act was passed, turning all footpaths into legally protected rights of way. Anything that had been recorded as a footpath for 20 years or more was now required to remain as such. Farmers could continue to grow crops, graze animals, whatever, as long as people could still walk through. So now I know that I can continue to walk through the big field even when the cows are there because the landlord isn't allowed to keep bulls older than 10 months near a footpath. The cows are pretty big, though, so I'll still give them a wide berth.

Well, if you've read all the way through this rambling post (ha ha) you know more than you ever wanted about walking in Britain!

Molly's meanderings

In the mornings I head out for my walk: down the main street, past the pond, through the smaller horse field, through the large field (as long as the cows are in one of their other fields), past the old church, and into the forest. Once I've gone far enough, I turn around and head back. This seems to be the route most Oddingtonians take.

In the large field I routinely run into Gordon and his dog Molly. She always stops, eyes me, tries to discern if I'm people friendly, and then once she's pretty sure I am, she charges the last 50 yards. This is always somewhat unnerving, as Molly weighs at least 70 pounds (especially the first time she charged- before I understood that this was the routine!). But she's super friendly and just wants a few pets and then Molly walks back to Gordon.

The other day The Village Newsletter for October arrived. I had happily perused the September issue when I first arrived. It's mostly announcements for charity functions and church services, but it also has a The Way We Were column, which highlights some historical aspect of Oddington (wartime recipes & rations in September, cricket legacies in October- of which our handyman is one!) and my favorite article, Molly's Meanderings, which discusses Molly the dog's adventures from her point of view. She talks about the large bull, Angus, she ran into last month (which is why I don't cross the large field if the cows are in it), plunging happily into a river, and eating apples fallen from the tree before her mistress realized what she was up to.

So I confirmed with Gordon that Molly of Molly's Meanderings was indeed his Molly. He concurred that she is a very good writer, with a good sense of humor. Then Molly posed obediently for a fan photo, and then they went on their way.

Fantastic Mr. Fox aflight

The morning dawned overcast and blah. I went out for my usual stroll and was almost to my turn-around point with nothing to report: no dogs or people on the trail, no horses, no cows, when I saw a man on an ATV come down the road and stop. I could tell he was waiting for me to exit the field through which I had just come, but had no idea why. I climbed over the stile, and just then, way up ahead, I saw two dogs! Oh good, the day's not lost. And then another dog, and another, and another two, and now I became a bit concerned. What kind of dog swarm was this? Around 50 dogs came around the corner and flew down the street and then I recognized them for large hounds. Unfortunately I was so surprised I didn't manage to snap a picture until most of the pack was past. The horses came soon after. All the riders identically dressed in green jackets. They were quite friendly and everyone said, "hi" which meant I was busy saying, "good morning," and of course my next picture-taking moment had passed. I'm really dreadful with a camera.

It took me a bit to wrap my head around the fact that a fox hunt had just passed me. And then I realized that I wanted more pictures, so I turned around and started heading back the way they went. I kept hearing the bugle blowing and the hounds barking and the horses' hooves clopping, but I didn't catch up to them again until a large field close to home. Just this morning I had noticed the tender crop growing in this field and was shocked to watch the dogs bounding all over it, men in horses trying to direct them. While standing at the gate to this field I was joined by a construction worker having his coffee break. He asked if I followed the hunt and I admitted it was the first one I'd seen. He told me the fox had gone speeding up the street right past him. Trying to save the fox he'd told the riders the fox went the other way, but they trusted their dogs more than him. Finally he mentioned that he thought fox hunting was outlawed.

Trying for one more picture I followed the sound of the hunt down a footpath right by our cottage. I could hear the hounds baying and tromping in the nearby brush, but I couldn't get to the open field where I might have a better view because my way was blocked by a hunter on a horse facing away from me. I really have no experience with horses, they've never been a favorite animal of mine, and all I know is you don't come up behind a horse, so I stayed where I was. But then I heard a beater in the bushes right by me, the ATV driver! And it sounded like the fox and hounds were coming right at me, so I hot footed it back to a safer spot. The fox must have been flushed because the dogs and horses then took off across the next field. Now I moved forward for a closer look, and discovered a man with a giant owl on his arm! As the man walked past me, the owl, who was totally perturbed by the hound fury he had just witnessed in close proximity, spread his wings, grazing the top of my head as they passed. Of course at that moment I realized I again had missed an incredible photo opportunity. Somebody should confiscate my camera.

When I came home, I looked up fox hunting in the UK. It was indeed outlawed in 2005, however a few loopholes still exist. While hunting with dogs is forbidden, hunting with bird of prey is not. So many hunting groups argue that the dogs are merely flushing the fox out for the bird of prey. From what I read, that's laughable because no bird of prey is going to hunt while there are 50 hounds in the vicinity, and from what I saw this morning? That owl was no exception.

I am glad I didn't know that hunting was illegal before this morning. It was awfully exciting to watch the hunt, and the dogs were having such a great time. The construction worker said the fox usually gets away, so that makes me feel a bit better. Still, I can understand why the country is so torn about banning hound hunting. It was so very British and I'm sure there's nothing like the adrenaline rush for the hunters on horses jumping fences and hedges in pursuit. But I hope all the foxes are as cunning as Fantastic Mr. Fox.

berry obsession

I've become obsessed with the sheer number of berry types here in the English countryside. Every day when I go walking I look for new kinds, and I am rarely disappointed. There are so many sizes and colors, they're on bushes, on trees, on vines.

For the most part I find them really pretty, but I know that the bright colors often indicate poison. I found this website that mentions some that you can eat and some that you really can't. You'll see quite a few of these in my photos, including the dangerous Yew, which I just discovered this morning:

http://www.countrylovers.co.uk/wfs/wfsberries.htm

It's probably good that Bug is not here with us. She tends to try anything that falls to the ground, and so I would be worrying about her constantly! Dare I say it? I would be berry worried. (oy!)

a spot of rain

Sudden rainstorms are the basis for many important plot twists in 19th Century English Novels. Those I could think of off the top of my head: Elizabeth Bennet ducking out of the rain and running into Mr. Darcy in the faux Grecian temple (Pride and Prejudice), Lady Dedlock seeking cover from the sudden rain in the same place as Esther Summerson and recognizing her for the daughter she had to give up (Bleak House), Arthur Clenham grabbing Little Dorrit out of the rain into a tea shop (Little Dorrit), and Captain Wentworth stepping out of a rain storm to find and misinterpret Anne Elliot's escort by William Elliot (Persuasion). I was always a bit skeptical of these convenient rainstorms, but swept along by the story, I didn't care too much.

However, it's an actual fact of English weather (at least here in the Cotswolds). Yesterday I went out for a walk on a sunny morning. I met Molly, the chocolate lab, and her person, Gordon. I watched Molly frolic happily with her friend Esther, a yellow lab mix, under the wonderful sunlight. A bit later, 1/2-hour into my walk, I turned around and started for home. And then I noticed that storm clouds had suddenly arrived. There was a drop here and there, and then it became a bit more steady. I picked up my pace. I thought I might get home before I was too wet, but then suddenly, there was a black Volkswagen stopped by my side with none other than my husband worried about me in the rain and come to pick me up. A heroine in my own English novel rescued by her handsome Mr. Darcy.

quaint addresses

There aren't any numbers on the houses here. They just get names, so like our house is called Rose Cottage. Our address is Rose Cottage, Back Lane, Upper Oddington. Then the zip code and Britain and that's it. The streets have to be pretty small to get away with this, and it definitely causes some confusion because all the houses tend to have quaint English names, like The Little Barn or The Ploughshare, and so they get repeated often. Two doors down from us? Rose Cottages, plural. In Lower Oddington I noticed three Rose Cottage's. I wonder how those are distinguished from each other.

Some of the names hint at some history, like The Little Chapel, which was indeed a chapel back in the '50's, and The Old Post Office. The other day while I was out walking a truck driver (sorry, lorrie driver) stopped and asked me if I knew where The Old Stone House was. I almost burst out laughing. Do I know where an old stone house is?

the pub life

We're starting to get in the swing of things here in Upper Oddington, and that means we head to the pub around 6 o'clock for a pint. Okay, well we kind of get a pint. I drink elderflower or apple soda. John can only manage a 1/2 pint (the first night he ordered a whole pint and then slunk out because he realized he couldn't get through it). John finally admitted to the owner of the pub, Simon, that his beer tolerance was pretty low. Simon informed us that one pub attendee regularly drank 10 pints in an evening. As John sat there sipping his 1/2 pint, the owner kept counting off each pint the guy had. He was up to 5 by the time we finished up and left. So we obviously need to get in better beer-drinking shape to live here.

Everyone knows each other and says hello when they come in. Dogs come in too, which we love. The other night Tim came in. Everyone said hi, but nobody made much effort to talk to him. We soon learned why, because each person he did manage to get in conversation heard the same story, about attending a memorial service in Cheltenham and how he hadn't been there in years, and how awful and big its gotten. Cheltenham is a small city 1/2 hour from Upper Oddington. We went there the other afternoon to go to Mail Boxes Etcetera and see a movie. The fact that this guy hadn't been for years to the only nearby city that has a movie theater? Well John just couldn't fathom it.

But it did confirm what Simon had told us: that Upper Oddington is mostly locals, horse breeders and farmers and such. Lower Oddington is where the vacationers go. The housing stock down there is much smaller and more like townhouses because it's where the tenant farmers used to live. So while it feels like a much denser and populated village, there aren't as many locals. We're happy to be living in Upper Oddington.