June and Carin, not in Oxford, but near Adelstrop, looking like they're on an album cover
We three saw many interesting and beautiful things over the last week, but it is the friendship of enduring gentleness, lack of judgement and ease of being together that will shape my memories of the fun we've had.
As parents of young daughters, June and I ran in the same circles, which included most socially significant, Saturday morning soccer, an occasion for much parental hobnobbing. But it was one Halloween when we escorted our girls in their complementary candy outfits that I recall a deeper connection. Since then, I have valued her always well thought out opinions, as well as her ability to question her own presumptions and those of others. She is as generous as the day is long, bestowing on me logical advice (my car's name is Junie thanks to her guidance during the COVID car drought), example setting (her adoption of fake mashed potato to perfect making cake rosettes) and genuine hospitality of the kindest sort, all over the place. And as it turns out, she's also able to drive down British country lanes with no markings at night when there are cars coming in the other direction with their brights on.
Candy corn, Jolly Rancher and paper candy buttons
Carin was very pregnant with her now 18-year old when she, before having moved into her house across the street, attended a neighborhood meeting, saying a lot about her propensity for wanting to develop a good understanding of a subject. She is quiet and the best listener I know, always thinking before she speaks and responding in a way that conveys compassion and her lack of agenda. She is the only person who made me cry during a difficult time for our family when she stopped me on the sidewalk, looked me in the eye and said "How are you? I will bring you dinner."
Both Carin and June are self-professed Anglophiles, having a penchant for Jane Austen, among other British writers. When a few months ago, we were casually chatting about my drifting over this way, the idea of us spending a week together came quickly and easily, despite some pretty complicated schedules.
Our first stop was Oxford, about an hour northwest of London. We encountered the kind of situation that drives me round the bend. Having successfully found a parking lot, when we went to download the app, nothing showed up. The website wouldn't load. After each of us trying, much walking back and forth from one end of the lot to the other while noting a train going by that was all restaurant cars with formally set tables, we somehow cracked the code. Useless time lost is how it always feels to me. My compadres were more sanguine.
Carin had booked a tour at the Bodlean Library, which was first established in 1488 and has many old tomes I'd never heard of but probably should have. Because books were so rare when it was established, each was chained to the building and stored laid down horizontally to not destroy the spines. Of note is a book in the library made out of cheese, and one that is 3 x 2.5 mm (a German ABC book from 1791). All Oxons wanting to access the library must agree in writing to not burn it down. If you were able to read one book a day, it would take 600 lifetimes to read each in the collection.
Windows were the only light available at the Bodlean when it was first built
Many were in Latin or other languages
The Radcliffe Camera
Door at the Divinity School, the oldest part of Oxford, attached to the library
Divinity School ceiling
Booklovers
I regret not having bought the book advent calendar at the library bookshop, but may scavenge online.
After a satisfying dinner at the Kingham Plow in Chipping Norton, June got us to our cozy cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water. Two of us friskily set out for a pub drink at 8:30, despairing to find almost everything empty, though we did have a nice walk around, noting that the wee bridges over the River Windrush were reminiscent of miniature golf courses. The place we finally entered turned out to not have six patrons, rather workers who had just finished up, giving off the feeling that we were entering somewhere to which we really hadn't been invited. Well, that's except for the little too friendly sous-chef from Newcastle who had been to Mississippi and wanted us to come back for dinner the following night. No thanks.
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