Spain and home again

My last blog left things pretty much in the air, as we arrived in Spain. Our arrival could have been a real come down after whistling through twelve countries in the motor caravan, but for various reasons it was not.

After happily leaving the ferry following a crossing which was both dull and without incident, we were thrown into the madness of the race track which is outer Barcelona, and it was getting dark. However, we survived and soon left the southbound motorway for Sitges. I knew little of the place so here’s a quote: “Renowned for its LGBT-friendly atmosphere as well as its world-famous horror film festival”. Yet we loved it, but not for those reasons. Rather for its attractive narrow pedestrianised streets near the beach, the beach itself, the nearby church and one of the best meals of the whole trip.

After Sitges, we passed over the coastal mountain range via L’Hospitalet de l’infant, then crossed the River Ebro where it makes its last surge towards the Med having traversed most of Spain, then on to our little village of La Fresneda in the province of Aragon.

That might have been a bit of a down-swing after dashing through twelve European countries, but it was not. We both felt happy to be there once I had carefully negotiated the narrow, steep and curvaceous tracks that lead to a carpark which is fairly near to our home. It is clearly signposted “No campervan” but we, after all, are locals and we both felt very pleased to be “home” again.  Here's a rather special view from the little terrace at the top of our house.

There were things to be done to the house and the caseta, as ever, but they were jobs that mostly had a beginning and an end and that nursed a sense of achievement. We spent time with our old friends, Willy and Dolores, we drank in the bar and greeted and were greeted by other villagers. Strangers in the village smiled and said, “Buenos Dias”. The bakery had ceased operation, but a friendly young woman now sold bread there which was baked in a nearby town and was just as crunchy. Sadly Ramon, one of the characters of the village had died in a fire in his own home, a house stuffed with “antiques” most of which were flammable. There were also many items of less sad news to catch up with.

Though we were there for three weeks, it seemed no time at all before we were on the road again - this time crossing Spain with stops along the way but always heading for Santander where we would take the ferry to Plymouth. And, though we had to spend one whole day in the motor caravan because of the pouring rain, we were well away from the chaos suffered by the poor people of Valencia.

We left the ferry in darkness at Plymouth and had no wish to drive all the way to the Cotswolds in pelting rain. So, I found a pub called the Skylark to the north of the city and the landlord was happy to have us sleep in his car park – provided we supped and drank in his bar. And what a bar, the perfect English country pub serving perfect real ale – nectar. I had three pints before I could be persuaded to eat.

Home the next day, having had a wonderful two months of travel and adventure, I patted the bonnet of my aging motorcaravan. We had driven 7,500 kilometres together without a major hitch and my notes of the adventure amounted to 35,000 words. What on earth am I going to do with that lot?

The long way to Spain

 

The long way to Spain

For various reasons I am not too good at keeping in touch with family and friends: I suppose this blog is my main means of keeping doing so and quite a few of my previous blogs have been about Spain. This year I decided that it was about time I visited an old Swedish friend that I met through my work as a consultant, he lives in Stockholm. So, an obvious thought occurred: why not visit him on my way to Spain? A little out of the way of course, but this seemed like the foundation for an adventure. I had always wanted to visit those three intriguing Baltic States that border Russia and discovered that there was a ferry between Stockholm and Estonia – this journey was clearly meant to be.

The first time I visited Sweden was in the 1960s when my teenage friend William Lefebve and I decided to go there in search of the claimed availability of free love. In those days there was a ferry directly from Immingham to Gothenburg but sadly there are now no direct ferries so we made for the Hook of Holland. That ferry starts from Felixstowe where I have another neglected old friend so we visited him and his wife along the way. Talk about a trip down memory lane.

Naturally I wrote notes as we travelled the 3,000 miles in our motor caravan and one day I might write them up as a book or something, but here’s a few brief recollections. I had a travelling `companion, Margaret of course, but also Thomas Mann via his fascinating book The Magic Mountain.

We visited 12 countries in total and took the whole of September 2024 to do it. The most memorable part of our Dutch experience was crossing the Zuiderzee, driving over a 19-mile dam with salt water on the sea side and fresh on the lake side.

Margaret had a strong desire to visit Denmark inspired by her favourite Scottish aunt’s love of the country and its friendly people. So we went there and found that auntie was quite correct. Interestingly, the least friendly country in our experience was the Czeck Republic. In Sweden we made fours stop including Taaby where my friend Bjorn lives in that nice suburban town, so neat and well run, very Swedish, very Viking.

The ferry to Estonia was a highlight. Parking at the head of one of the queues waiting to board I glanced at the driver of the van at the head of next queue and saw the father of our Spanish grandsons!! This was one hell of a coincidence. We had not seen each other for years and there we were thrown together by fate. We had a great time on the boat, drinking and dancing (the entertainment was stunning), recalling old times and catching up with the current lives of Jordie and his Swedish wife Boodil.

The three Baltic countries were flat and pretty boring to drive through. However, the capital towns of Tallin and Riga made up for all of that and our accidental visit to a small impoverished village in Lithuanian was educational.

In Poland the highlight was Warsaw where it rained, no, poured. We had a pretty lousy campsite but with easy access to the city by bus. There we were impressed by the traffic free centre with its grandiose churches and castle. So difficult to countenance that the Nazis destroyed 75% of this place. I thoroughly enjoyed a visit to the Marie Curie museum and to a simple church with a pure white interior nearby.

Next day we entered the Czeck Republic and were roaring along at the usual 60-70mph regularly overtaking lorries and being over taken by cars when something odd happened, the road emptied of traffic and then suddenly was blocked by a barrier and we were forced off it. The cause was the flooding that affected much of central Europe just then and that finally landed us at Frydek Mistret where we were greeted by avoiding eyes and downcast faces. Still the beer was good and the food served in overly generous quantities.

We moved on to Olomouc which we both agreed was our favourite city with its two connected ‘squares’, wonderful buildings and spirited street art. We passed on to stay the night at a highly commercial campsite alongside Lake Musov then, next day, we entered our favourite country Austria. There we found the small town of Illmitz next to the beautiful Neusieder Lake, a town surrounded by nature parks. I cycled out to one and met a man from near Witney in a hide, and he shared his telescope with me. More bird watching and an overnight stay in a small Hungarian village whose only restaurant was fully booked for a private party, then continued along that country’s van rattling roads to Sofron where we enjoyed a view of this Hungarian city from its tall fire tower.

Then we were back in Austria and were brought to tears by the wonderful buildings and courtyards of the city of Graz backed up by the pealing of many bells from its many wonderful churches. As we travelled south blue mountains appeared on the horizon and grew to dominate our journey. We were much taken by our stay in the long lakeside village of Portschach until we discovered that almost all of the lake’s edges were inaccessible, privately owned. So we moved to Villach where the camping ground had its own lake into which I dived after a long and somewhat scary walk in the adjacent mountains.

After this we entered Italy spending one night in a small village parked within a line of rotting camping cars, a graveyard we will never understand. We followed this with the seaside town of Caorle just above Venice, a pleasant place with boats parked almost alongside cars in the centre of the town. Next the big one, Florence, and our largest and most expensive campsite of the whole journey. I believe we had become over churched by this time and the Duomo struck me as being somewhat over the top, excellent as it is, so we were glad to divert to the pretty seaside village of Le Grazi on the Mediterranean side of the country followed by the lakeside town of Marta where we had a smashing spot beside its small port and spied rather rare red-faced pochards. I took my longest bike ride of the trip there alongside the lake, claimed to be the largest volcanic lake in Europe.

Next day we visited the stunning town of Tuscana on our way to Rome’s ferry port and then, after a disappointingly boring crossing of the Med, disembarked at Barcelona. From there it was just about four hours to our second home, La Fresneda.

 

Cotswold Way, August 2024: Cheltenham to Winchcombe

 

This was to be my final leg in the 100 miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. More of a home country leg this one and I started by taking the early morning 801 bus from Stow on the Wold. The driver dropped me off close to the old Reservoir Pub near Cheltenham. It is now a foreign restaurant of some sort, and, to my relief, when I crossed the road there was the fingerpost to the Cotswold Way

This was to be my final leg in the 100+ miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. This was more of a home country leg for me and the weather was good, though very hot in the sun. However, the ascent from the reservoir was mostly through well-wooded slopes so not too bad. Unfortunately I lost the usually plentiful Cotswold Way signs somewhere so I had to ask advice from a young lady with six dogs (not her own apparently). Over the barking of those dogs as they strained on their leads towards me, she said that this was not the Cotswold Way but I could rejoin it via a road at the top. I took her advice and headed west along the road and soon arrived at the place she had suggested where the Way crossed the road.  Full sun for a while as I crossed a path at the edge of field and hence very open. That was where I met Richard going in the opposite direction, he was a camper like myself but did not have a GT. He told me that he wished he had one. I reached a road and then looked down onto Cheltenham to my left and Leckhampton Hill on the other side of the town: the site of my recent wash out. I had that view for a very long time and was soon able to see beyond Cheltenham towards Gloucester. the Severn valley and the Malvern’s.

I lost the Way again later but was fortunate in spotting the Surveyor. He was busy taking photos of butterflies but offered to take me to a path that rejoined the Way. It turned out that he was not a Building Surveyor but an opinion collector for the likes of local government. This surprised me since he was definitely a one-way act. If I did manage to interject something like “I own a field” but he just carried on with his stream of thought concerning the growing of garden produce, the shortage of butterflies, problems with runner beans and so much more. His interest in my background or views was zero, so odd in a surveyor. But I must thank him for setting me back onto the Way.

After passing through a golf course where I managed to avoid the balls, I entered a cooling treed area at the exit of which I ate my lunch beneath a tree and there discovered that I had lost a sandal.  Following that I entered a gruelling stretch through steep wooded areas that wandered to the south before finally swinging back north where I emerged onto a flat hayfield where I met a couple from Tasmania, probably about my own age. She was particularly interested in the GT and wanted her husband to see how it attached to the haversack. Their travel agent had sold them a trek from Stratford to include the Way. Why he did that, they or I did not know.

I reached Bellas Nap burial mound which was not particularly impressive apart from its vast age and location. After that some more woodland and two steeply sloping fields towards Winchcombe where the Way then edged along the town to the south with good views of the attractive church. I took a diversion to follow the River Isbourne to the lane which led to my old camping spot from my Berkeley trip.

That spot was further up a lane off the Way and the farmer had kindly left the gate open for me and the field had been recently mowed: a piece of machinery was still within it. It was a perfect camping spot, secluded and in a corner which was not farmed, yet not far from the town centre. I soon had the tent up and retraced my steps before taking the main road into the town. I passed the White Hart which looked busy and then ended up my previous drinking hole, the Plaster’s Arms. It was closed (Mondays and Tuesdays) but notices suggested it still had a life. I had a few excellent pints in the other two Winchcombe pubs and a fairly interesting conversation with a local about university life in one of them. However food was either at a premium or unavailable so I ended the evening by consuming a couple of mini pork pies beside the river as I returned to my secret camp site.

I felt happily intoxicated as I walked up the dusky lane, but a was a little surprised to find the field gate now locked. I climbed over and walked around the corner in the growing darkness and increasing drizzle to find that my tent and everything else had vanished! No sign of my camp at all. I could not believe it, yet had to do so. Clearly the farmer had removed all of my stuff and presumably dumped it somewhere. I stood frozen for a while trying to think what I should do. My only option seemed to be to walk back into Winchcombe itself.

As I walked dispiritedly past the entrance way, I saw a pile of stuff on my left which I had not noticed as I entered. This untidy pile contained my stuff: the tent, the GT, and who knew what else. It was all very wet of course and I was getting wet too. I had no idea whether the tent was usable, it seemed in a terrible state. Besides that my chances of finding an alternative wild camp in the dark and the rain were remote to say the least.

I spent an age untangling the tent and its various poles, so that I could stuff it and the rest of my belongings into the GT bag and my haversack. Apparently, everything was there, even my Kindle. I then walked sadly back to the centre of Winchcombe to endeavour to get transport back to Stow. I stopped near the main T junction of the town and took out my phone. Everything I tried: Uber, local taxis, whatever all met with failure.

Despairingly, I walked along to the White Hart. It was closed of course. but there were people inside: the staff having a last drink, I supposed. Also the window onto the street was open and a young couple sat within the pub on the sill beside it. I explained my dilemma to them, and the young lady of the pair took over my phone and after some time managed to contact a taxi company based in Cheltenham. The charge to Stow would be £65, ridiculous but I had no choice. I booked it and those two kind youngsters invited me into the pub to wait.

The taxi driver was from Bangladesh and had little English so most of the journey took place in silence. It seemed a very long way and I arrived around midnight. I had no keys and though I could see that our bedroom light was on I could not make Margaret hear my knocking and ringing, so I retrieved my secret key entered the house and went up to our room. As I opened the door Margaret looked shocked and perhaps frightened and for a short while I was struck dumb. Then I briefly explained my reason for being there and she was wonderfully understanding, even making me a rum and coke which I sorely needed, and so to bed in the comfort of my own home!

Next day it rained all day so I could not examine my hastily packed camping kit. But the following day was fine and I was surprised to find that there was no obvious damage to my stuff. I had presumed that the farmer had angrily ripped the tent from the ground and threw it outside the field. In fact he had unzipped the door presumably to remove my stuff, then removed the pegs and placed them inside and only then collapsed the tent. Given that, I resolved to return to Winchcombe sometime to continue my journey, wild camping and all.

 

The perfect tour

I’ve been guiding in Oxford for nearly 20 years now, not continuously of course – it has always been a part-time activity. In that sense it has fitted well with my lack of commitment: I could spend long periods in Spain, or working on our regreening project at Stow on the Wold, or travelling the world. It also fitted well with my other activities, including writing, walking and such. It was never a big earner, you need to be very committed to make it your only source of income, and events can easily result in no income at all: both winter and lock-down are examples. I haven’t finished guiding yet, but I reckon the end is somewhere in sight which made me think of the perfect tour. It might not be what you expect.

The ingredients are pretty much as follows: the participants, the theme, the weather and the guide. By the latter I mean, in this case, the guide’s mental attitude. None of these are truly in a guide’s control. Mostly you have no idea who the participants are going to be beyond nationality or sometimes age. Take a recent day when I had an emergency tour to deliver. The organiser, based in London. wanted the tour delivered on the following day for thirty -three people. I only take nineteen and even that is quite a crowd on the streets of Oxford. Negotiations via phone and email were not complete until the group were on the train and on their way to Oxford! The organiser agreed to split the tour and we agreed on a price for each tour. I quickly showered and rapidly pedalled down to the railway station. I like a challenge.

They were from Wako University in Texas and when we finally found each other I was greeted with enthusiastic, but undeserved, Texan whooping. The split was agreed outside the Said Business School and the afternoon lot wandered off towards the centre. My first lot, mostly young and female, had a thirst for knowledge about the workings of the Uni and, as often, tried desperately to fit this to the US system. They do not, of course, fit. But, the long trek from the station aside, it was a good, though challenging, tour which evinced many demanding questions from my enthusiastic audience. The tour for the remainder of the group was at 1.30 pm, meeting at the Weston Library. No one came. I waited for a while then a couple with two very small children turned up – that was all. What happened to the other nine I shall never know. And here’s a problem: a seven and a three-year old have little interest in the workings of the University and their parents’ main interest is the welfare and happiness of their kids. Even conjuring up Harry Potter does not help in these circumstances. Nevertheless, I did my best and dropped them off to meet the rest of their group at Christchurch where they could take their prearranged audio tour with their colleagues at the “Harry Potter” college.

Of course, there is no perfect tour. But a state of perturbation in the guide and enthusiasm in the guided nudges things that way. I suppose one of my best was with an audience of one: a Harvard professor. At the end of the tour, actually more of a spirited conversation than tour, he thrust a $50 tip into my hand. This I heartily refused saying that I had enjoyed the tour just as much as he claimed to have done, but he insisted.

Me and my golf trolley do a bit more of Cotswold Way

 

Actually it was not supposed to be a bit more, it was supposed to be the rest of it after completing the Bath to Stroud section last year.

I started out from Stow on the Wold at around 10am on 12^th June 2024 having completed some necessary mods to the golf trolley, now called the GT. Most important was a fast release connector to detach the thing from my haversack. This latter worked well, and eased the problem presented by the bloody kissing gates. Bus to Merrywalks in Stroud then managed to reconnect with the Costwold Way at Ruscombe. That was not easy. I had to stop at a pub called the Star Inn on the way to ask for directions, then finally managed to rejoin the Way which I have now renamed the Dogswold Way since there are so many of the four footers exercising their owners up there nowadays.

The first stage was a walk to Painswick providing some great views of the Severn Valley along the way. In Painswick I spent my first night under canvas in a wood opposite the town’s Rococo Gardens. Didn’t sleep too well: female foxes screaming, I think. Found a pub of course. It was the Royal Oak which a man on the street told me was the best pub in the world! It was not half bad. Good food, great local ale and an excellent lady publican plus a few friendly locals to converse with. I was short of water for next day and the landlady gave me a bottle, “No charge, because I admire what you are doing”. Wow.

Woke at six and, after the usual hour de-tenting, I rejoined  the Cotswold Way which passed right next to my corner of the wood. It led through a golf course which was lightly populated by early morning dog walkers often with 2,3 or 4 dogs, plus a few early golfers who, I thought, eyed my GT with some perplexity. I was directed by helpful walkers towards Painswick Beacon but I did not see it.  Very poorly signposted. Weather was still good with sunshine though chilly. Then a long trek mostly through steep sided beech woods (eg Pope’s Wood, Upton and Brockworth) with limited views due to the trees. Rounded the steep sided Cooper’s Hill before coming to a roadway and then along wide and often muddy farm tracks chewed up by tractors. There I had long views towards Gloucester and could see Witcombe Reservoir. Met a few people: mostly women walkers or dog walkers. One woman was from Holland and had her whole trip organised by Cotswold Walkers who transported her luggage from stopover to stopover. She eyed my GT with something between curiosity and distaste.

There is a pub at Birdlip Hill, but I arrived at about 11am and wanted to reach Cheltenham where I planned to overnight so carried on rather than having a bite of lunch there. Plodding on I began to see and hear a very busy road which turned out to be the A417 heading up the hill to the old Air Balloon Pub - recently deflated. This is the place where, as I told anyone who would listen, I had my first pint of bitter, aged 15 years (me, not the beer).

Had my lunch, a scotch egg, at the car park near the crest. Wonderful views towards Gloucester and the Malverns, but marred by the noise of the A417 then on each side of me. The area around the flattened pub was like a war zone. Heavy lifters crushing and moving rock for some new road layout, same machines that destroyed the Air Balloon, I suppose. Leaving that behind me I entered the strange diamond of road and path which sits atop Crickley Hill, home to two stone-age occupations and then an iron-age one. Though redolent with ancient history there was little to see of that, but those old ‘uns did have a great and expansive view from up there.

Getting out through the northern point of the diamond was tricky, high gradient slopes plus a narrow track and I was quite confused by it all – didn’t seem to line up with the map. I struggled on through strengthening drizzle to Leckhampton Hill, part of my upbringing in Cheltenham, and headed for the strange natural limestone tower known as the Devil’s Chimney. I did not see it, the drizzle had become a serious rain storm. I donned my waterproof trousers and struggled along hardly able to see much through the rain and also battered by strong winds. I felt like an arctic explorer, but managed to find the Way to Hartley Hill with its misty views of Cheltenham to the north. After that the Way made a dog leg south towards Seven Springs where I had to take the very busy A435 road. It was horrendous, no pavement and the grass on the verge so long that I could not drag the GT through it so kept to the very edge of the road itself with cars and lorries within inches of the wheel of the GT. Very relieved to turn off onto a proper path that led up to Ravensgate Hill and which then turned back in the correct direction making for the reservoir to the east of Cheltenham.

I had planned to camp near Cheltenham for the night but the rain came back and the whole area on the upper slopes became very slippery, not good when you are towing a GT. The downward path edged along a steep decline where I had to push the GT in case it might drag me down the slope from behind. I did slip once in fact, but managed to save myself and the GT from falling. Having lost the Cotswold Way, I was forced to enter Lineover Woods which eventually led me to the A40. However, before I reached the road, I had decided to abandon the walk. It was just too wet and the forecast was grim. I checked the bus times to Stow on my phone and found that the very last bus was due at the Reservoir Inn at 18.48, I had ten minutes or so to get there. I could just make it. This was an amazing and fortuitous coincidence. I could not believe my luck, but the bus did arrive and I clambered aboard with all my stuff.

Disappointing. I had only covered about 26 miles, consumed 3 pints of ale and visited just two pubs. But the walk was good and I will continue on to Chipping Camden sometime this year.

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.

Only in Oxford: Free Will versus Determinism

 Did you freely decide to read this blog or was it simply inevitable? This free will argument engages my brain and has done for some time. Is everything pre-determined? Since our universe is determined by physical laws then given a fixed starting point everything must evolve according to those laws – that is determinism, we do not have free will. You did not decide to have eggs for breakfast this morning rather than cereal. You thought that you decided, but that thought was predetermined. When Jack the Ripper murdered all of those innocent people, it was not his fault, his actions were predetermined and not his responsibility!

I believe that we have free will and I can explain why. I believe that you can choose between eggs and cereal for breakfast and hence that we are responsible for our actions. Consequently, Jack the Ripper, if he had been found, should have faced the consequences.

Nevertheless, this very important issue needs exploration.That is why I decided to return to Oxford from Stow on the Wold in order to attend a lecture on it at St Margaret’s Institute which is quite near to our flat in North Oxford. The title was ‘Free will is not an illusion: biology against determinism’ and the speaker was Denis Noble. As usual I cut things fine, arriving about 3 minutes before the start. I was then faced, along with other disappointed attendees, by a large printed sign saying FULL UP. I was shocked. After all the lecture hall is large, it probably holds 70 or more, and the subject somewhat obscure. And so the title of this blog: “Only in Oxford”.

Undeterred, I returned to the flat and quickly found a video by Denis Noble on this self same subject. Watching it I quickly ascertained that this ancient, white haired, white browed academic believes that we do have free will - that our actions and thoughts are not predetermined. He bases his argument on the simple fact that the elementary stuff of which we are all made behaves randomly (Brownian movement, etc) and so nothing is predetermined.  I so agree.

Later I watched a TED talk by an enthusiastic young determinism believer. He was very convincing of course. But, at the end of his talk, he advised us that we must not use this determinism as an excuse for irresponsible action! We must, he advised us, try to do the right thing and by our actions persuade others to do so too. Silly man. If everything is predetermined there can be no persuading since that assumes the possibility of changing the future and determinism determines that the future is already determined! What do you think?

Christmas past and present, plus tunnels

 

Last year, 2022, Margaret and I spent Christmas in Adelaide with out youngest son and his family, and I swam, twice, on the day itself in the shark-infested Great Australian Bight which I suppose is part of the Indian Ocean. We celebrated the New Year with our granddaughter in her New Zealander husband’s birthplace of Mount Maunganui where I played with my first great grandson and swam in the tumultuous Bay of Plenty. Chinese New Year saw us with my eldest son’s family showered with fireworks on the high mountainside peach plantation of his father-in-law in aboriginal Taiwan. Clearly, that year set a very high water mark for this one, 2023.

This year we spent most of the two weeks around Christmas on our own in either Stow on the Wold or Oxford. I did not swim and the weather was cold and mostly dreary. Yet it was great. We attended a wonderful carol concert in the beautiful surrounding of Keble College, Oxford. Then, on another evening we were the singers ourselves, singing traditional carols for charity with my fellow guides at the Broad Street Christmas Market. This was followed by a bit of a pub tour ending up at the Rose and Crown, one of our locals. Then off to Stow where we had two excellent musical nights in the Talbot on the main square. It’s recently been taken over by the lead singer of that internationally famous group, Aliens Don’t Ring Doorbells. On Christmas Eve he did most of the singing while his troop of young ladies from Spain paraded prettily to his dulcet tones and we were applauded for our dancing, well Margaret really.

The Christmas was all nicely finished off by a visit from our two grandchildren from London, accompanied by that same great grandson, now a busy and adventurous one and half year old. Then finally, on New Year’s Eve we wandered down to our other local in Oxford, The Harcourt Arms which is well known for its music. There, a large man called Jack bashed away at his electronic organ playing any song on request, even mine: The Wild Rover. At about eleven the doors burst open and in poured our favourite group, the Spirolites and things then went wild for the last hour of 2023 and a bit of 2024.

Next year? Who knows?

https://youtu.be/xXHlBT0FEgI

Back to normality. I’ve just launched a new video. I’ve made a couple on the tunnels of Oxford and they have proven popular so I thought I would mop up with some others I know of. There’s something about these subterranean places especially in a city like Oxford, you know. This one’s called More Secret Tunnels of Oxford – have a look. https://youtu.be/xXHlBT0FEgI

Worcester College opens the doors – and the gardens

Worcester College has always been rather inaccessible during my career as a guide but, under the new Provost David Isaac, it has opened up; more than that it is actually welcoming. I have always admired this college and it is “in my patch” of Oxford. Though not so great when viewed form the outside, inside it is wonderful: a hidden jewel and so green.

Emma Goodrum, the college archivist gave us guides from the Oxford Guild an excellent and informative tour and I thought then that I must add it to my Most Beautiful Colleges of Oxford series on Youtube. And I have. Take a look here.