Dreaming Spires

Dreaming Spires

Recently I returned to Oxford for a brief visit after an absence of some thirty years. Everything looked just the same. The dreaming spires remain, magnificent as ever, and all appears just the same; but it felt very different.

Looking out of my hotel window, “The High” was quiet. Unheard of all those years ago. Where once the city was choked with traffic (and us by its fumes), and assaulted by the accompanying noise, now there is relative tranquility. Gone was the chaotic melée of the competing bus companies, all vying for the same customers; gone were the cars and trucks playing dodgems, and the kamikaze cyclists weaving in and out of them. Now bikes appear to have a free reign, moving unimpeded, at least in this stretch of the city.

The absence of the old hustle and bustle gave the illusion that somehow there was more space.The city felt less claustrophobic. It was a Bank Holiday, so maybe it wasn’t as busy as it might normally be, but Bank Holidays were the same all those years ago and the difference now was palpable.

Walking up Catte Street towards the Bodleian, this illusion was dispelled as soon as I got to “The Broad”, which was as busy as ever, albeit less frenetic than I remember. Blackwells bustling with eager shoppers looking as much for souvenirs as books: Potter, Alice, Hobbit, Ring, or something more esoteric? Tour guides animatedly recounting history to tourists, some attentive, others glued to their phones, heads bowed as though in supplication to some electronic deity. Bikes were as prominent as ever, parked neatly in racks or scattered around; many fully serviceable, others clearly in need of TLC but, curiously, also chained.

Then the inevitable visit to an old watering hole. Still as popular as ever, town, gown and “grockle” all queuing for a drink in the melting pot that is the Turf Tavern. Definitely no change there…. And it felt just the same.