As I arrive back in Oxford on a bracing March day, negotiating my way past the hordes international students and their outsized wheeled suitcases, I follow the familiar walk from the railway station east to Carfax. The sky is stained with delicate ashen hues and as the noble bells of the former parish church of St Martin strikes the noon, Oxford’s buildings of Cotswold stone both elicit and absorb the spring sunlight. Before the final chime of Carfax had struck, Mr Thompson arrived laden with rucksack, aged Ordnance Survey maps and Pevsner’s county architectural guides. Oxford is at its finest as we trundle full of heart toward St Giles whereby we encounter our ruddy-faced dear friend, Rev. Dr Philip Kennedy. Dressed in a crumpled linen suit and squashed Panama he is everything you expect in an Oxford academic.
After our supplies, consisting mostly of nuts and cider, were sought we board the bus towards the middle age village of Wolvercote. Following a cheeky ale stop in the Plough Inn we excitedly leave to meet Paul at Dukes Cut. Paul is an utterly charming fellow and very kindly loaned us his trusty ‘Old Town’ Canoe. Imagine our uncontained excitement when he told us that he worked as a sommelier at Christ Church College. Just imagine that cellar! After loading our tentage and necessaries aboard the vessel we tentatively board; the waters of Dukes Cut are dark, still and tranquil on this early spring afternoon. As we glide down to the meet the noble Thames waters, waving back to the wine keeper, our oak paddles penetrate the still, dark waters.
Sir Rosis of the River rests at Yarnton Mead.
The breadth of the Thames meets us with its broad expanse. We negotiate our way past the King’s weir pushing forth upstream. After fine tuning our paddling technique we decided to rest awhile. Pulling ashore, the canoe kisses the steep banks of Oxey Mead. Securing the canoe-rope under our derrières, we lie upon the sweet especial rural scene toasting the 'River-Gods' and savouring the joy of yet another 'Gentlemen Travellers' adventure. Even though many months have passed, I can still feel the damp clumps of meadow grass as if only yesterday; the ancient Thamesis waters kissing the river-bank and the last hum of the Oxford traffic being put behind us. Onwards we travel, winding serpentine north-west; passing the mixed woodland of Wytham and Cassington village.
Monty at Great Wytham woods.
Pinkhill Lock.
The angry skies that met us on Oxey Mead have now dispersed and given way to glorious shafts of afternoon sun glinting through the steep banks of Wytham Woods onto the lolling shallows of the river below. We are entombed in some verdant earthly paradise. Adrift, we stall to consult our 1970s published OS Landranger maps; nothing has changed here for centuries. The spire of St Peter’s, Cassington, pierces the horizon. On planning our route, we were sad to learn that the light 17th Centaury ring of six bells were unringable due to their precarious ancient fittings. From here, we made some real pace upstream before the last of the long shadows disperse. We languished in the verdant glory of the tranquil Wytham a short while - a toast with Cider. Wytham Woods is an SSSI owned by St John’s College. Oxford University Botanists and Zoologists monitor and preserve its unique flora and animal-life.
We have long-since waved goodbye to any inhabited communities some miles back. Our nearest river place for food, beverages and hospitality was Eynsham, some few miles back accessible by way of its mill-stream/leat. We are now to rely on Riverine public houses in order to break the ritual of breaking into the 'nuts ‘n’ cider' pantry. We negotiate Pinkhill Lock which Leon operates as I guide the canoe through the layered walls of green slime which rise many metres above. These locks are no place for me to start expressing my fear of deep, fecund waters! Our map tells us to aim for Bablock Hythe for dusk. Bablock is literary famed by Matthew Arnold who immortalised its river bank and hostelry in 'The Gypsy Scholar'. The early evening river is exquisitely serene. Several great hulks of mid-restoration working boats were the only sign of life as we paddled through the still waters. We glide aside Stroud Copse, Farmoor reservoir and Eaton Heath. Again, we toyed with the idea of ringing the bells at Stanton Harcourt. With light diminishing we pressed onwards towards Bablock Hythe.
Day Two: An inquisitive Owl peers down upon us. Mr. Thompson consults our navigations.
We approach Bablock Hythe as light diminishes; passing what seems like mile upon mile of eerily deserted plastic caravans. We encounter the ‘Ferryman Inn’ and wait for it to open at 19:00. Shortly we come to realise that this pub closes on a Tuesday: a Public House closed on a Tuesday! Bugger! Once again we step back into the Canoe and come to land half a mile upstream where an eroded field crumbles into the water’s edge. Avoiding the sheep shite and savage violent thistles, we set-up our river camp for the night. Half-heartedly, we take to the wine and cider and nestle in for the night. We are both exhausted; a twilight slumber is immediate not much after nine pm. We were very disappointed with Bablock. We were expecting something 'poetic', not the 1970's urbanesque pub that now occupies the site. The writer Peter Ackroyd acknowledges that a ferryman has existed at this site for at least the past 700 years. The broad field we slept in that night has a sense of ancientness about it. This field is in itself evocative of another time. I sense an ancient enclosure, unchanged across the millennia.
Day Two: We depart Bablock Hythe. Heavy rain fall in Gloucestershire swells the river, making our journey upstream difficult and increasingly dangerous. This was my perpetual view for Three days: Mr. Thompsons' scapula. "Paddle harder" he says. "Balls, I’m paddling hard! You just can't see it. And I’m steering too you directionless shit!"
The ancient Newbridge (1250). The Maybush Inn (Left) & The Rose Revived (Right).
We depart Bablock early the next morning. The Thames is swollen and swift with torrents. We decide to press on and review the situation once we pass the River Evenlode near Shifford lock. The River Evenlode winds its way south-east from Moreton-in-Marsh through the picturesque Cotswold landscape before finally joining the Thames. The day is very overcast and soon our waters are dappled with rain. We pull out the tenting ground-sheet to cover our rucksacks and food stuffs within the canoe. The river, though entrenched in this gloom, is serene. We encounter two gentlemen walkers, the only humanity we have passed in fifteen miles of this famed river. Mr Thompson and I point out to them the Owl we have just glided beneath. The Owl seemingly nonplussed by our antics. We find also a Heron standing gracefully as we near Shifford. We have seen in abundance Canada Geese - they outnumber the mute Swans copiously. Appletree Common is to our left along with Duxford with its RAF base, Buckland and Hinton Waldrist. Several RAF Hercules aircraft fly low overhead. The river now becomes broad again as we approach Newbridge. The 13th Century bridge of Newbridge is said to be the oldest surviving of the Thames bridges although this is debated as Radcot Bridge is an older structure but was heavily rebuilt after damage caused during the Wars of the Roses. We pull over at Standlake/Newbridge at the larger of the public houses to our right (The Rose Revived) too early (again!) to enjoy its temptations. We guess that this place is a summertime family pub. We take a rest. Mr Thompson takes a breakfast of tinned Mackerel in tomato sauce tipped into a torn stale bread roll.
DAY TWO: Mr Thompson downs the nectar and we prepare our next water borne move from the welcoming shelter of the Maybush Inn. Swans near Radcot Bridge
Pressing onwards the rain becomes relentless. We glide aside many huge riverside mansions with their mock Tudor timbered boat houses; "would ya just look at the house!” we mockingly exclaim in our best impressions of Dara Ó Briain. Torrents of rain have made our hands cold and spirits equally dampened. We are forced to make a big decision: head back to the Maybush Inn for a pint of cheer and some warmth before heading back slowly downstream or breaching further into Gloucestershire? We decide on the former and back at the Maybush Inn we are greeted at the banks by a rather jolly Landlord. "Come in my dear boys. Wife! Wife! We have hearty fellows to warm!" We drag our canoe, which we appropriately named Sir Rosis of the River, up the steep river-bank. The Maybush is indeed warm and also a museum to river life and the Inn’s frequent flooding. The fire crackles and ales are served to us. Our landlord with his merry wife takes a fervent interest in our 'river japes'. This kind of trip is a rarefied thing it seems. We are rather too late for food but after several tasty ales we are waved on our way.
Day Two & Three: An eyot on the Eynsham Mill Stream/Leat became our overnight home.
We reached as far as the ancient Radcot Bridge. Anglo Saxons used this as a crossing point. It is also the scene of the ‘Battle of Radcot Bridge’ fought during December 1387 when the troops of Robert de Vere who were loyal to Richard II clashed with Henry Bolingbroke’s troops. The bridge is also where the cut of the Thames-Severn canal meets the Thames. This was once used to link London and Bristol by water and where stone was conveyed from a nearby quarry up river for the building of St Paul’s Cathedral.
We reach the conclusion that it is far too wet to continue to Kelmscott Manor (home of William Morris) and the town of Lechlade. With heavy heart we turn back for Oxford. It is amazing just how quickly we travel on the swollen river with our only halting caused by locks. We eventually meet a lock-keeper which is rarity at this time of year. Mr Thompson chats a while with him as I cling to the green slime of the lock wall. My fingers seem permanently stained by this activity which makes me think of Sir Gawain and the green Knight. I am no Knight however, simply a mere pudgy middle aged small-time adventurer. We have decided to aim for a few miles outside of Oxford to set up our final camp for the night so as to make the following day an easy glide back into the spired city. We aim for just outside of Eynsham where we can buy beer at the mill-stream tavern. By late afternoon, we reach the mill-stream and turn into its overgrown narrow channel. We are immediately dwarfed by rain rich reeds. The channel is both deep and shallow in places. We approach the drone of Eynsham's roads and some fringe industrial units hover above us. Factory workers toke on their crafty cigarettes out back; only visible to our riverine eye.
Day Three: Heavy over-night wind drying our river-damp clothes. We really had set ourselves up as neo river gypsies.
We emerge to the side of the Talbot Inn with daylight diminishing once again. The bruised sky indicates that it is time to establish camp. Mr Thompson feels he cannot cope with another night under canvas with us being so close to Oxford. We have no choice. We send a telephone message Paul and tell him we will return 'Sir Rosis of the River' back to Port Meadow tomorrow. "Sup up your ale, we have a tent to pitch". We head back along the leat until we come across the eyot we passed earlier. We are quite literally about to spend this last night on 'an island in a stream'. Once again, we haul the canoe up the steep bank and clear a patch to camp. We are wary as the island appeared to be a reserve for Otters or Badgers. With our tent pitched and a small battery radio sounding scratchy-sounding retro pop we settle for our final night. We have had no other fluids to drink except for the stale cider. We realised we would have to remain half-pissed along the river over the last day just to remain hydrated! We are both exhausted and as daylight faded we both sleep. Mr Thompson's diet of peanuts creates an aroma of 'nutty flatus'. Our night was one of rain and wind ravages yet by morning all is calm. We awake to the sound of a nearby farm tractor. No Otters or Badger invasions during the night. Slowly we pack away our camp and we consume the last of our tinned mackerel in tomato sauce. Sir Rosis of the River is pushed down into the mill stream and we paddle once again to meet the Thames, taking a left-turn for Oxford.
Day Three: Final moorings at Port Meadow - Oxford.
Day Three: The restoration at the Eagle & Child public house, St Giles. Oxford.
Day Three: The Inklings corner of the Eagle & Child pub. We stink of muddy Thames water, stale cider and semi-unwashedness; albeit for the interventions of cuccumber wet-wipes.
We paddle out the awkward mill-stream and greeted by gale force winds on the expanse of Oxey Mead. For a river, this becomes very choppy and the winds threaten to tip us into the deep; throwing our canoe onto its side and towards the left side river-bank. We begin to argue over the best course of action. Mr Thompson wishes to stay in the midst of the wide river whilst I much preferred to keep close to the river bank so we stood half a chance of getting out instead of drowning if capsized. I confess to dramatically accusing my friend of being 'reckless with my life' and screeching like a small Vietnamese boy being touched by Gary Glitter. It was an extremely tense situation for some time and we were eventually forced to take Sir Rosis out of the river and haul the vessel over a field and gate. Heavy work indeed! Soon, we have turned out of the wind and we can once again risk the river. Suddenly, the wind diminished and the sunshine emerged as we approached Godstow Priory (the place of Fair Rosamund) and Binsey with its 'Treacle well'. Through our final lock gate at King’s weir we emerged on the vast plain of Port Meadow. Here the sunshine glitters on the shallows and we are once again reunited with the spires and domes of the great learned city. The people of Oxford have had grazing rights on the Port Meadow for centuries; an ancient barrow tumulus is the only bump on its otherwise flat vastness. Down to the boat yard whereby we meet Paul once again who has abandoned the wine cellars of Christ Church to retrieve 'Sir Rosis of the River' and place our adventurous vessel in its new home; a farm opposite Port Meadow.
Mr Thompson and I walk back through the Oxford district of Jericho via the familiar Walton and Little Clarendon Streets to the Eagle & Child public house on St Giles’. We consume a hearty lunch with ales and are relieved to be seated with our limbs still recovering from the last three days of paddling. Suddenly we are surrounded by an American man explaining to a large group of people that our table is where Tolkien & C. S. Lewis et al met. Mr Thompson points out that they are rudely interrupting our meal and our quiet reflection time. They were not even buying drinks! We escape to complete the day at the Three Goats Head’s on St Michael’s St. I used to swing in to this ale-house after Oxford Union debates some few years back. Daylight vanishes once again and I have to say my goodbyes and trundle on to the railway station and back to my own Mercian home.
Journeys End: St Michael’s St, Oxford.
Epilogue:
The Thames falls South-Easterly from its (much contested) source somewhere near Trewsbury Mead. The word Thames is considered to be ancient Briton - meaning 'Dark Waters'. During its course through Oxford it adopts the name 'Isis' between ‘Long Bridges’ and ‘Black Bridge’ where the once back water was widened to allow river traffic to navigate more easily than its original course with ‘Isis’ being a derivative of Thamesis. The River Cam in Cambridge equally becomes 'The Granta'. Other rivers share a similar name origin: Teme = Thame for instance. The Thames has also been a dividing point. In Anglo-Saxon England the river marked the border of the Southern Kingdom of Wessex against the Hwicce and Mercia north of its shore. During our journey we encountered a handful of WWII pill-boxes. These were a last resort against the invading forces had they approached from the south. Hitler fancied himself with Oxford as his central office/government with the Bodleian's 'Radcliffe Camera' acting as his personal office. Mr Thompson and I may, at some stage, complete the journey (Oxford to London). On this stretch of the river more habitation: towns!!
Our next ‘Gentlemen Travellers’ adventure is in April 2012 where we will traverse the National Peak Park.
