We owe to Shakespeare

Summer Eight Bump Race

Today was the Summer Eight Race  -- a bump race that is Oxford University’s main intercollegiate rowing event of the year.  The race has been taking place since Wednesday and concluded today.  It is the strangest boat race I’ve ever seen.  Each crew attempts to progress up their division by bumping the boat in front, while avoiding being bumped by the boat behind.  Once a bump has taken place, both the crews involved stop racing and move to the side to allow the rest of the division to pass. It is possible to “over bump” if the 2 crews in front of your boat bump (and so drop out) and your boat can catch the boat that was in front of them.  They then swap places for the next day’s race, whether that is the next calendar day or the first day of racing in the next-year’s competition.

The ultimate aim of a crew is to become “Head of the River” (top of the first division) and stay there.  This entitles the winning crew to commission trophy oars in their college colors with the name and weights of the successful crew on them – commonly called the “winning blades”. 

The race takes place in May every year during the 5^th week of Trinity term.  This year, it has been gorgeous weather for the 4 days of the race.  This afternoon we rode our bikes up the Thames to watch the finals and it was so much fun to watch the last race of the best of the women’s and the best of the men’s crews.  I have to admit, the race didn’t make much sense to me until someone explained the rules. 

Women's crew warming up and getting into place.

Trying to pump the the boat in front...

...while not being bumped from behind.

Men's crew warming up.

The race is on!

The "Head of the River" gets the first slot.  Their aim is to defend their position.

Two boats,  one bumped, trying to get out of the way.

It's a close race.

About to be bumped.

Bumped!

Moving on to the finish line.

Diamond Jubilee Preparations

London is getting ready for the big royal bash next weekend!

Beating the Bounds

In medieval times the annual “beating of the bounds” confirmed the extent of a parish’s jurisdiction and responsibilities. Only two Oxford churches keep up the custom: the City Church of St Michael-at-the-Northgate, and the University Church of St Mary the Virgin. Today, Ascension Day, members of St Michael's and St Mary' congregation, as well as many who just wanted to participate for fun, marched through Oxford marking out the parish boundary by beating specially marked stones with sticks. Since some of the stones are in bars, pubs and shops, startled and bemused onlookers like me were fairly common.

A short service was held in each church, followed by a procession of clergy, dignitaries, and common folk who followed the ancient route around the landmarks, beat them with white sticks, marked them with chalk and called “Mark! Mark! Mark!”.  The walk took about two hours and  the end was at Lincoln College where the participants were fed and watered with Ivy Beer. 

High Street

St Michael's Street

Boots the Chemist, CornmarketFormerly parish boundary of St Martin
and St Michael-at-the-Northgate

Brasenose College, High Street

Clarendon Building, Broad St, side of pillar

Back of Boots the Chemist, Market Street 

"Mark! Mark! Mark!"

Rainy day in London

A rainy day in London

"I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it"

"I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it" - (As You Like It: Act II, Scene IV).

My mother-in-law came for a two week visit and we've had a wonderful time exploring Oxford and surrounding treasures.  Just before she left my niece came and we all spent a day exploring Stratford-upon-Avon.  What a gem of a town!  My love and appreciation for the genius of Shakespeare has been renewed. 

The fields are still bright yellow with rapeseed.  I've been cooking with rapeseed oil and I like the slightly sweet nutty taste.

The song "Fields of Gold" has taken on new meaning for me.

I love the skyscapes here every bit as much as the landscape.

I love these Cafe windows that look out over the garden of William Shakespeare's birth house.

Home where the Bard was born.  He was the 3rd child of 10.  His father was a glove maker. 

On the grounds of his house, a few actors stroll about and suddenly start acting our scenes from various Shakespeare plays.  It is absolutely captivating. 

This is the family home of Anne Hathaway, the wife of William Shakespeare.  They were somewhat well off for their time. Anne was also 8 years older than William and he was just 18 when they married.  Their first child was born 6 months after the wedding followed shortly by twins.  His only son died at age 11 and, while his daughters married and had children, within 3 generation, there were no more direct descendants. 

 Through chance, the Hathaway cottage has stayed preserved pretty close to it's original state since Anne and William where married.

The cottage gardens are stunning.

I love these ancient windows, no matter how drafty they might be.

A house in Stratford.

I have always loves wisteria and I'm delighted to see it blooming everywhere here.  

My Shakespeare by Kate Tempes

He’s in every lover who ever stood alone beneath a window,In every jealous whispered word,
in every ghost that will not rest.
He’s in every father with a favourite,
Every eye that stops to linger
On what someone else has got, and feels the tightening in their chest.

He’s in every young man growing boastful,
Every worn out elder, drunk all day;
muttering false prophecies and squandering their lot.
He’s there – in every mix-up that spirals far out of control – and never seems to end, even when its beginnings are forgot.

He’s in every girl who ever used her wits. Who ever did her best.
In every vain admirer,
Every passionate, ambitious social climber,
And in every misheard word that ever led to tempers fraying,
Every pawn that moves exactly as the player wants it to,
And still remains convinced that it’s not playing.

He’s in every star crossed lover, in every thought that ever set your teeth on edge, in every breathless hero, stepping closer to the ledge, his is the method in our madness, as pure as the driven snow – his is the hair standing on end, he saw that all that glittered was not gold. He knew we hadn’t slept a wink, and that our hearts were upon our sleeves, and that the beast with two backs had us all upon our knees as we fought fire with fire, he knew that too much of a good thing, can leave you up in arms, the pen is mightier than the sword, still his words seem to sing our names as they strike, and his is the milk of human kindness, warm enough to break the ice – his, the green eyed monster, in a pickle, still, discretion is the better part of valour, his letters with their arms around each others sholuders, swagger towards the ends of their sentences, pleased with what they’ve done, his words are the setting for our stories – he has become a poet who poetics have embedded themselves deep within the fabric of our language, he’s in our mouths, his words have tangled round our own and given rise to expressions so effective in expressing how we feel, we cant imagine how we’d feel without them.

See – he’s less the tights and garters – more the sons demanding answers from the absence of their fathers.
The hot darkness of your last embrace.
He’s in the laughter of the night before, the tightened jaw of the morning after,
He’s in us. Part and parcel of our Royals and our rascals.
He’s more than something taught in classrooms, in language that’s hard to understand,
he’s more than a feeling of inadequacy when we sit for our exams,
He’s in every wise woman, every pitiful villain,
Every great king, every sore loser, every fake tear,
His legacy exists in the life that lives in everything he’s written,
And me, I see him everywhere, he’s my Shakespeare.

Bluebell Woods

I had heard about some woods called Bluebell Woods not far from Oxford.  I had also heard that they boast a carpet of blue in May that is not to be missed .  It turns out the woods are at Harcourt Arboretum, just 5 miles from our home.  John and I took a walk through the woods this afternoon and we couldn't believe how beautiful they were!  

Bluebell Woods at Harcourt Arboretum -- just a few miles outside Oxford and part of the University

The blue color in is far more vibrant than my iphone camera could capture

I felt a bit like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz -- except someone had given me azure glasses instead of green ones.

The trees are every bit as beautiful as the bluebells

I wish I could capture the true scope of the color of these woods

There are bluebells in the woods behind our house but they are not a prolific as they are at Harcourt Arboretum

Apparently, bluebells are the quintessence of an English woodland in the Spring