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Emma Watson, political prisoners, and scarves - A Trip to Oxford
Arrival
With a few days’ spare annual leave, Oxford became the destination of choice. Apparently, the place to bump into Emma Watson, meet the sons of political prisoners, and the home of the scarf-wearing elite.
A melody of gentle trings provides a serene backdrop- everyone seems to glide about on vintage bicycles, tasteful totes draped over shoulder, and vintage satchels cinched tight, unruffled by haste or urgency. Sandstone buildings tower above winding streets, which break into parkland and manicured gardens at regular intervals.
The People of Oxford
The people look distinctly English. It’s not what they’re wearing, but instead a subtlety of the features, almost like a regional accent of the face. There’s a bit of the great Ralph Fiennes or Charles Dance hidden in the people’s composition. A small difference from my home on the edge of the valleys of South Wales.
The city has an immediate sense of wealth, not just from the luxurious cars, and prim, flowered canal-side terraces. People certainly walk with a sense of importance, including some of the young students.
I noticed that the population are heavily be-scarfed. In The Kings Arms, my attention was drawn to their coat rack as it was burgeoning with piled scarfs, draped on top of one another and spilling over onto nearby fixtures. After a delicious local ale and stepping back onto the streets, I observed that nearly everyone in the city had a scarf, loosely, fashionably thrown around their neck- surely all a conspiracy to mark me as a tourist.
Perhaps part of Oxford’s charm is that people dress for the position of Oxford resident. You could pluck someone from the streets of Oxford today and drop them in the 19th century, and they wouldn’t look out of place. A place where you expect to find horn-rimmed glasses wearing, tweed donned, wool jumpered, Italian leather shod characters. I suspect many find great joy in living their role in this romantic play of academia and sophistication.
Places to Be
I spent my time drifting about street by street. It’s a small city and you get to know the layout pretty quickly. Ducking into stationery shops such as the extravagant Scriptum, the crisp hardware store Objects of Use (filled with beautiful gardening implements, enamel mugs, penknives, and wooden children’s toys), or recuperating in New Ground Coffee over a flat white.
As the sun became low in the sky, rich gold light streamed through Broad Street, cutting between the mighty Bodleian Library and Blackwells bookshop to the North, and the Sheldonian Theatre on the South. I chatted to some locals, camera in hand, and dived into making street portraits.
Portraits
What a fantastic place to take people’s photos- well dressed, energetic, beautiful architecture, and gorgeous light. The first few snaps, as always, didn’t quite land. But before long, a group of students coyly ask me if I can take their photo. Of course, I obliged, and it became the perfect warm up.
A couple of group shots and some spontaneous snaps and I’ve hit my stride. An intriguing fellow called Vedat, double ear piercings, tousled dark hair, ready to roll a cigarette, is bustling past. I take his picture, and then strike up conversation - we go for coffee the next day in Missing Bean, where we talk politics, Oxford, and books.
An elderly couple next, another student, then, without realising, I accidentally captured Emma Watson. The pictures weren’t great, and it was only the next day I realised who it was- her friend was understandably indignant.
I spent the rest of my time in Oxford dawdling along the canals, watching houseboats bob lightly and geese peck at seeds scattered by residents, bicyclists rolling over steep arched bridges and tractors mowing pristine cricket fields.
Hilair Belloc said,
“There are few greater temptations on earth than to stay permanently at Oxford in meditation, and to read all the books in the Bodleian.”
Oxford feels old, but not weathered, powerful but not imposing, pretty but not indulgent- you really do want to stay, to read books, to think.
For that reason, I am planning my next trip already.
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Wine and Cheese
A look back at some early photography, with some travel writing attached. This first spread was from a trip to North Wales with my partner while she was pregnant. We hopped in the camper and headed off- me with my dad’s old Praktica camera and a single roll of film. No expectations from the photography, I was quite happy snapping away.
Lately, I’ve been journaling more consistently. Writing and photography go together like cheese and wine, or bread and butter. They of course exist on their own but the sum is so much great that their parts it’s starting to feel inconceivable that I haven’t always been making detailed notes.
It transforms some holiday pictures into real memories. Memories others can enjoy, whether they are your decendents in the future, friends and family, or strangers on the internet. Pictures may paint a 1000 words, but whose words? What happened everywhere outside those little frame lines? Before and after the shutter fired?
I’m trying to answer those questions, to carry you along with the experience, and add depth to two dimensions.
Page 2 and 3 of Gogledd, a printed zine I made for our own records
