GOLDEN WONDER
Carol Burkinshaw discovers the Cotswolds and Oxford
As we wandered around the esteemed colleges that sit within the Oxford University bubble, we ‘freshers’ soon began to feel the weight of over 800 years of history and academic achievement seeping through the walls of its architectural gems. On Radcliffe Square, at the heart of the university complex, I recognised some of its renowned buildings from photographs I’d seen of them, such as the Sheldonian Theatre, the Bodleian Library and the Radcliffe Camera reading room. Yet, I found myself quite unprepared for the overwhelming collective impact of this eclectic ensemble of glorious golden-hued wonders before me.
A sea of camera phones awaited us in the city’s Memorial Gardens. Its floral fireworks lit up the exterior of Oxford’s largest temple of learning and one of England’s smallest cathedrals, at Christ Church College. Inching through the crowded Great Hall, inspiration for the dining hall in the Harry Potter films, we weren’t sure who was studying who as we filed past so many portraits of eminent boffins who had attended this scholarly seat.
It was an open-door (admission free) weekend at the renowned Magdalen College, so we hadn’t expected to find a sense of peace amid its shady cloisters and snooker-table smooth green quads. Was that the young Endeavour we’d just seen or his older self, Inspector Morse?
Isolated from the ancient infrastructure, the enticing façade of the (uninterestingly named) New Building seemed a little out of place. Apparently, an 18th century vision to build a
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grand new quadrangle was ditched after only one side was completed.
Sitting astride the ancient Merton College, the university’s riverside meadows offered us some light entertainment. Here, the twistyturny River Cherwell, overhung with low branches that were starting to flare with autumnal colour, was about to hook up with the Thames. The buzz of Oxford’s busy streets seemed so distant, yet the city’s ‘dreaming spires’ were close by.
We loitered on a tight loop in the Cherwell. As the ‘captains’ of Oxford’s hired punts spotted us they would instinctively adopt a laid-back posture. But the telltale sign of hands fumbling along the long pole, as the driver simultaneously pushed off the riverbed and steered around the bend, tended to result in a wobbly boat. One chap accidently released the pole, leaving it stuck in the mud, whilst the boat gently rocked into the riverbank.
Other folk enjoyed an on-boat picnic and some were even chilling a bottle of wine or champagne in an ice bucket. How wonderful! Riverbank picnics and messing about in boats evoked memories for me of the adventures of Toad, Ratty, Mole and Badger in Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, which is believed to have been set on the upper Thames. At the River and Rowing Museum in Henley-onThames we followed in the ‘footsteps’ of the tale’s characterful companions at The Wind in the Willows Exhibition. However, in the rowing gallery, even my husband, Andrew, – with his size 11 feet – couldn’t fill the shoes worn by the strapping Sir Matthew Pinsent when he won gold as part of the coxless four at the 2000 Sydney Olympics.
Downstream from Henley, Temple
Island marks the race start point for rowers participating in the Henley Royal Regatta. A summerhouse folly presides over the regatta events from this mid-river island,
but we indulged in our spectator sport from a riverside bench. Speed merchants, locked in concentration and rhythm, powered their blade-thin craft past us, while cruisers effortlessly glided through the water.
None of this activity diverted the attention of a grey heron patiently waiting to spear its meal or bothered a slender-framed fox, brush bouncing, as it purposefully trotted past the heron. Only the red kite soaring above was keeping a watch on the bigger picture.
We tracked the river along the roughly one-and-a-half-mile-long regatta course into Henley. Beyond Henley Bridge we paused to admire the New Orleans, a stunning Mississippi-styled luxury paddle steamer with two tall smoke stacks, before continuing to Marsh
Lock.
Unusually, this lock is situated on the opposite bank to the towpath. This meant we had to cross the river on a lengthy wooden walkway to the lock and then double back on another footbridge to return to the towpath. In between the walkways was a fish ladder to enable the salmon to swim around a large weir. This river architecture, combined with a smattering of white-painted properties poking through the trees along the riverbank, presented a very pleasing outlook.
Often compared to Oxford’s Sheldonian Theatre, the immense old County Hall on the Market Place at Abingdon-on-Thames, was an uplifting sight. Abingdon grew up around
THINKING OF GOING? INSURE WITH SHIELD FOR TOTAL PEACE OF MIND Isolated from the ancient infrastructure, the enticing façade of the (uninterestingly named) New Building seemed a little out of place
its 7th century abbey. Although the abbey church no longer exists, the gateway and Abbey Gardens were worth a look. From the Thamesside terrace of Annie’s At The Boathouse tearooms, both the 15th century Abingdon Bridge and St Helen’s Church spire looked absolutely resplendent.
We explored this UNESCO World Heritage Site and birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill on foot. It was also just a short walk to St Martin’s Church in Bladon where Churchill is buried and into the market town of Woodstock.
We made our way to Blenheim’s parkland centrepiece. Standing on the Grand Bridge, which divides the Great Lake and Queen Pool, my eye was drawn to a statue of John Churchill, the first Duke of Marlborough, triumphantly mounted atop the tall and slender Column of Victory. Blenheim was gifted to John by Queen Anne as a reward for his overseas defeat of the French at the Battle of Blenheim in the War of the Spanish Succession.
From the shoreline of the Great Lake, I visualised an 18th century scene in my mind. In the foreground, the River Gleam flowed under the Grand Bridge.
I’d framed an image that made a monumental statement of aristocratic glory, although it was Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown who later finessed this composition by adding sweeping serpentine lakes and other landscaping special effects. No matter what angle we viewed Brown’s interplay between the palace, bridge and lakes from, it was so harmonious.
Just south of the elegant town of Burford, the grounds of the former Bradwell Grove estate have been incorporated into the design of the Cotswold Wildlife Park and Gardens. Dedicated, where possible, to enriching both the lives of the residents and the experience of visitors, the animal enclosures are roomy and open plan, although we did still feel sorry for the winged and slithery creatures in their confined environments.
Inside the rhino stalls, hush was requested. Our reward was to observe a mother blowing air from her huge hair-dryer-like nostrils over her teeny two-week-old calf. Outside, backdropped against the manor house, the other rhinos were ‘mowing’ the front lawn.
Bats are not my thing, so I’d had no intention of entering the fruit bat house. However, the timely arrival of a keeper laden with fruit persuaded me to give it a go. The keeper hung up bunches of fruit and partially peeled a banana, which she then held out in her hand for the bats to feast on. Fascinating as it was, what was falling from above the keeper was less appealing!
In the walled garden, penguins, meerkats, prairie dogs and otters played and squabbled in
their living space, seemingly relaxed. Our most intimate encounter was with the Madagascan ring-tailed lemurs in their walk-through home. Some of these expressive primates, with their teddy bear coats and long black-and-whitehooped tails, were subathing in a comical yogatype position.
The River Windrush, which slices through the Gloucestershire village of Bourton-on-theWater, was in no hurry and neither were we as we meandered across its five graceful arched bridges.
Meanwhile, we roamed cross-country to the neighbouring settlements of Lower and Upper Slaughter. Straddling the babbling River Eye, their dark names relate to nothing more sinister than what were once ‘muddy places’, but are now unspoilt – and car park-free – pristine backwaters. In particular, the red-brick chimney of Lower Slaughter’s rustic mill and its tiny pond contrasted well with the warmth of the golden stonework.
Broadway, with its wide street of dignified period buildings, was a distraction. This Worcestershire stunner sits at the foot of the Cotswold Escarpment and, up on the ridge, Broadway Tower crowns the second-highest point in the Cotswolds. As we ascended towards this turreted Gothic folly, the vista grew more expansive.
The tower, on the other hand, coyly remained hidden until the last moment. Close up, this commanding structure reminded me of a giant white rook from a game of chess, strategically placed on the board to take advantage of its sixteen chess set opponents – the sixteen counties it’s claimed can be seen from the tower on a clear day. Whatever the case may be, it’s a huge vantage point and the distinctive outlines of the Malvern Hills and Wales’ Black Mountains were easily recognisable to us. Nearby, at Dover’s
Hill (also on the Cotswold Escarpment), we pored over the topograph, trying to identify the various landmarks across the farreaching Vale of Evesham. As we were too late in the annual calendar for the shin-kicking, tug of war and general rough and tumble of the Cotswold Olimpick Games – an unlikely predecessor of the modern Olympics – we leisurely wandered into Chipping Campden. The craftmanship of the old Market Hall and the individually styled properties that form a curving terrace along the High Street to St
James’ Church were a delight.
Lifting the lid on some of the honeypots of Oxfordshire and north Cotswolds had been a treat. During our week, we’d ‘met’ Olympic champions, the mellow Cotswold stone had glowed and autumnal tints were beginning to edge the leaves of trees. We’d struck gold – and it left us wanting to dig for more.
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