A surprising visit to Lincoln College. Sexual harassment and the founder of Methodism

 I have a slight interest in John Wesley and the Methodist Movement mainly stimulated by providing a couple of tours on that theme in the past. The connections with Oxford are strong, of course. Wesley and his brother attended Christ Church and, after graduating, John became a fellow at Lincoln College. He is celebrated there: his original room is preserved, he preached in the chapel and donated gifts to the college.

Simon Q  CC-SA BY 2.0

With others the Wesley brothers founded a group sometimes called the Holy Club. They were rigorous in their religiosity, meeting daily from six until nine for prayer, psalms, and reading of the Greek New Testament, then praying every hour throughout the day, taking Communion every Sunday, and fasting on Wednesdays and Fridays until 3 pm! It is from this rigour that the term Methodism is said to have evolved.

That demanding timetable would seem to leave little time for dalliance. Nevertheless, Wesley did marry. This took place in 1751 by which time he was 48 years old. He would have then been required to resign his fellowship at Lincoln (Fellows were sworn to celibacy until late in the 19^th century). That said, I was intrigued by a notice of a forthcoming lecture at Lincoln titled Wesley and Women and went along with Margaret, my wife, who has a slight interest through her non-conformist upbringing as a Baptist.

Expecting a rather dull meeting yet hoping for something that might add to my guiding knowledge, I was surprised and shocked by the presentation. It focussed on a mysterious letter to John from a young female admirer; a letter that had apparently been discovered and removed by his wife when she left him in 1758. The lecturer read extracts from the letter and displayed the text on the screen at the same time which was quite effective to my mind and preferable to the straightforward reading of papers common amongst Oxford academic presenters. Amongst warm appreciation of Wesley’s godliness, etc, there were clear insinuations in the letter of unwelcomed sexual advances! However, the situation is confused by alternate use of first or second person which left some doubt whether the perpetrator was Wesley or some unknown man.  The presenter left us to decide for ourselves the validity of the letter and the guilt or otherwise of that stalwart of Methodism.

Afterwards we drank wine with the presenter and his wife, then walked to Oxford’s newest hotel: The Store. There we took a lift to the roof top bar and surveyed a panorama of Oxford’s centre which was spectacularly new to me and, to use a modern adjective, awesome. Another glass of wine then home, discussing the culpability of Wesley and moral lassitude of important men. Sorry I should say people to be inclusive.

 

Inspiration from Morocco

 Yes, we’ve been off again. First time to Morocco, though it’s next door to our second country, Spain, and shares a couple of cities with it. Why Morocco? ‘Cause it’s supposed to be warm and sunny in the winter and it combines some familiarity (we lived next to Moroccans for some time) and has tempting mysteries.

We landed in Marrakesh and it was hot. I had booked a hotel for three days with the flight which was mysteriously called, Riad DAR 73. We caught a bus to a large square which turned out to be the main centre of the ‘red city’ and walked towards the hotel; it did not seem far and we had Google to guide us. But Google failed and three policemen in argumentative conference could not help. After many false trails we found the place down a very narrow alley strewn with rubbish and lined with collapsing houses. We could not believe it, this was supposed to be a five-star hotel with swimming pool, though I must say it had seemed quite a bargain. I ducked low to get through the door and looked around suspiciously, could this really be it. In fact, once inside it was not too bad, but certainly not five-star.­­­­

This was the beginning of our flirtation with Riads. They are large houses that have been converted into small hotels. They are located in the Medinas (the old walled part of city where no cars are allowed) down very narrow alleys. They are not at all impressive from the outside, but are often palatial inside: usually built around an atrium with the dining room on the ground floor. Our most impressive were in Fes, the original capital. There the Madaw had a large atrium decorated with multi-coloured small tiles in swirling patterns reaching right up to the top floor where our sumptuous room was similarly decorated, as was the shower room. Yes, we stayed in a small palace with an open rooftop above and sometimes had the whole place to ourselves.

We had taken the train to Fes so we could see a good deal of the country along the way. Once there I found the Medina claustrophobic and soon tired of the passive aggressive offers of help from potential guides. We travelled to the more modern capital of Rabat then drove to a large lake called Merja Gerga beside the Atlantic to study birds where I was particularly thrilled to observe spoonbills.

Morocco is not the place for those who like to take a drop, but we managed. The saving grace was often the hidden booze cellars of Carrefour supermarkets, but some restaurants catered for the needy.

Returning to Oxford at 4 a.m. on a freezing Sunday morning we walked through appalling scenes of drunkenness, debauchery and semi-nudity. And, out running the next day, I rather missed the friendly faces, the hand touched to the chest, the engaging nod, the knowing smile and the warm sun. Back to reality, the trip has given me an idea for a book, and that can’t be bad.