Of Blowing The Cobwebs Away

I am writing this snuggled up under a blanket with a nice cup of tea, warming myself up, as I have just got in from a blustery afternoon's walk. A friend and I decided to brave the weather and so, boots on, umbrellas in hand, we set off towards Iffley lock, which you can see in rather nicer weather here (annoyingly I forgot to take my camera today):

We met outside Christ Church Meadows, and cut across those to Folly Bridge, before striking out along the Thames towpath, surrounded by fields on one side and college boats full of rowers out training on the other... Luckily the latter petered out as we got deeper into the countryside!

Iffley itself is a pretty village just on the outskirts of Oxford, and we were able to catch a glimpse of its beautiful church, St Mary's (built in 1170), across the water.

Someday I'll have to wander round the village itself, and have a look inside the church. Today, however, we were being rather less high-minded, as our destination was a yummy pub lunch at the Isis Farmhouse:

Although it had stopped raining, we were still glad to get inside the pub, which I had never been to before. My friend had warned me that it was a little unusual, and he was right, in as much as there were only three things on the menu (plus the gourmet baked beans on toast and homemade cakes and scones they always serve!), but luckily the choices of soup, lentil stew, or Moroccan style chicken casserole all sounded lovely. We both plumped for the chicken casserole, which was indeed delicious: a generous serving of couscous and chicken, mixed together with olives, lemon, various spices and served with still-warm bread to dip into the juices. Mmm! Coupled with a glass of wine, it was perfect for a pick-me-up before going back outside. Fortified by our meal, we decided to carry on walking for a little longer, passing the two pretty bridges next to the lock, the second of which is based on the famous Mathematical Bridge at Queen's College, Cambridge:

We almost made it to Sandford, the next village along the Thames, but decided we'd better turn back before the winter evening drew in. Next summer, perhaps!

This afternoon's trip was just what I needed to blow away a few cobwebs, and it was fun to discover somewhere new in Oxford, and to feel so countrified so short a distance from town (it took us about 45 minutes to walk to the pub from the town centre). I'll definitely be doing more of this in the future; who knows, perhaps even The Walking Boots will come into their own once again...! Only, of course, if there's a nice pub to warm oneself up in at the end of the trip. On which subject, I leave you today with the charming opening sentence of Sir W's 1600 essay 'Of Alehouses':

'I Write this in an Alehouse, into which I am driuen by night, which would not giue me leaue to finde out an honester harbour. I am without any Company but Inke and Paper, and them I vse in stead of talking to my selfe'.

Of A Welsh Retreat

I spent last weekend staying with my aunt and her partner in South Wales, a wonderful wintry break. Much as I adore Oxford, it can become a (very pretty) claustrophobic bubble at times, and getting out into the Welsh countryside was a welcome retreat. My aunt has three dogs, who all require a lot of exercise, so I muffled up in layers upon layers and ventured outside to enjoy the autumnal scenery with them, which was lovely even in the rain which stereotypically poured down throughout most of my visit. The walks were a lot of fun, and I almost regretted not taking The Walking Boots with me so they could have another little outing. Almost. Sadly I forgot to take my camera, so I can't share the beautiful vistas, the fallen red leaves, the fern-lined streams, and the panting dogs and woolly wet sheep. Nor the rumbling log fire, glowing candles, cosy cushion-filled window seats, and delicious warming food, which all seemed so much more luxurious thanks to the rain-lashed windows and cold winds blowing outside our little nest.

My aunt's cottage is up the side of a hill, reached by a twisting lane which seems a lot longer, let me tell you, when you have to walk up it in the snow, because the car can't make it ... such journeys are one of the abiding memories of my childhood. Also clambering over the fence into the field which borders my aunt's garden, picking my way over to the cows' water trough, smashing the ice and scooping out a pail of water to take back to the house, so that we could actually flush the toilet when the cold weather had frozen all the pipes. This is also the aunt who used to take me camping as a child, so you can see it is really to her and her partner that I owed my ability to wow my fellow chaletites with my nonchalant (well, more nonchalant than they were expecting, anyway...) response to the Chalet's own basic conditions this summer. As I said, at least there I had a proper bed, rather than a tent floor!

I've been spending a busy week since returning from my trip, with lots of work and lots of socialising, which has been fun if a little exhausting, and has unfortunately left little time for blogging -- hence the late description of my Welsh break. I am summoning up the remains of my energy today however for a friend's birthday party tonight, which should be a lot of fun. Some old undergraduate friends are coming up for it, so I'm looking forward to seeing everyone and catching up on all their news. My friend lives in East Oxford too, so we're going to be exploring some of the restaurants and bars on this side of town -- I can't wait to get to know more about my new area! Talking of which, I must go and prepare for everyone's arrival: washing up, tidying, all those sorts of joyous activities. Thank goodness some frivolity will be returning this evening with the advent of a few cocktails and some good company! But although I am very excited about seeing my friends tonight, after such a busy week I've also been glad of a quiet morning today. I love spending time with other people, but I also need some time alone to recharge and refresh myself. This morning -- even with its chores -- is a good opportunity for that, meaning that today looks to be a perfect combination of reflection and revellry. For, as Sir W said in his 1601 essay 'Of Solitarinesse and Company':

'The vse of things makes things worth the vse, and company by the vse is an excellent instructour, and solitarines moderatly taken, makes vs fit for company'.

Of Alpine Life

I thought I would start off a couple of posts about my alpine trip with a little description of the daily routine at the Chalet. It is odd just how quickly I settled into it. It was a soothing kind of existence, cut off from phone and internet, with time to sit and read and muse, to talk if one wanted to talk, and to walk if one wanted to walk (admittedly I did more of the former than the latter...). The day generally began just before 8 (apart from for those hardier souls who would go off for day-long treks into the mountains, clutching water bottles and a loaf of bread, at six o'clock in the morning). We took it in turn each day to cook the evening meal, in pairs or threes (I was rather relieved when my turn came to be merely Chief Cutter-Upper for someone rather more skilled than I in catering for twelve people), and every morning the day's cooks would knock on the bedroom doors, leaving a jug of hot water to greet their still-sleeping companions. Hearing the knock, my room-mate or I would stumble from our sleeping bags, bring in the water, and then throw open the wooden shutters onto our balcony, admiring our morning view as we brushed our teeth:

It looked beautiful at dusk, too:

The bell would ring for breakfast, and we would all troop downstairs in various states of sleepy-headiness. Some amongst the group were obviously very much Morning People, laughing and chattering away across the bread, grapefruit and (when we had a particularly good cook) freshly baked muffins and cakes. Others groggily reached out wavering hands for the delicious smelling coffee pot, gratefully clutching at the hot cup and attempting to steam some sense into their brains. I was very much of the latter party. I am emphatically not a morning person, and I Don't Do Breakfast. I have been told time and time again how unhealthy this is, but I can't help it - if I try to eat too much, too quickly, in the mornings, the result is Bad Indeed. I used to have a pet hamster when I was younger, who, when she awoke, would stagger around for a few minutes, with her ears clamped flat down against her head, her eyes bleary, until she gradually came to full consciousness and her fluffy little ears would start perking up again. My ears are definitely down in the mornings. Nevertheless, I managed to brighten up enough by the end of breakfast to be cheerful enough when helping with the washing up (we got a very good relay system going of washer-upper, rinser, dryer(s), and putter-awayer) and not be too much of a kill-joy when the early birds amongst us started singing madrigals to speed up the dishes...

After breakfast, I would generally steel myself to face The Shower. This was something I had been rather dreading before I arrived at the Chalet, as in the notes we were told of an 'ingenious' shower arrangement, and I had noted an alarming vagueness on the subject when I tried to press people about what this actually meant. As it turned out, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared, although I must say my first shower back in Oxford felt rather luxurious in comparison (not something one would normally say about college accommodation showers!). The shower room was, when the Chalet was originally built, a Turkish Bath. Yes, a Turkish Bath. This, along with the maids and the requirement to wear a tie at dinner, is long gone. Now, there is a system by which one fills two large jugs with hot water, one with cold, climbs up a wooden stepladder, holding said jugs rather precariously, and deposits their contents one by one into a tub which is connected by a long pipe to the shower head. One then leaps under the shower, turns on the connection, and hopes that hair can be washed and body can be scrubbed before a) the water turns cold; or b) runs out entirely; whilst c) also keeping fingers crossed that the damn thing actually worked (it broke down at least three times across the ten days, but luckily one of our party was a brilliant handy-man in a crisis, who at various points ended up on the roof and in the middle of the septic tank ... more about these events another time. Priceless).

After grappling with the shower, which, incidentally, was reached through a door in the main salon so tiny that it suggested the Chalet's first inhabitants to have been hobbits, I would generally return upstairs to air my towels on the balcony and apply my make-up (I had made sure to get one of the few rooms with a mirror - priorities, priorities). The rest of the morning would be spent in the main sitting room - the salon - curled up under my shawl (a beautiful birthday present brought back from Florence by a friend), until the sunshine broke through enough to lure us all out into the garden, where we could sit and admire both the view and the Chalet itself. My room was the one at the far left-hand side of the balcony as you look at the photo below, with a lovely dual aspect across both mountains and garden. The salon is directly underneath.

On a few of the days, about half the party went out for a day-long walk, but generally speaking, everyone would spend at least the morning lounging around reading - either for work or pleasure - and the walking would commence in the afternoon. A lunch of the evening before's left-overs, along with ham, bread, cheese, and fruit would make an enjoyable break in the middle of the day. By this time the sun would be in full flame, and I would merrily skip upstairs, exchange my trousers for a little skirt, slather on the sunscreen, and while away another few hours reading in the sun, until the heat got too much for my head, and I was forced to retreat back into the cool of the salon, taking up residence once more on one of the sofas, and sipping copious amounts of tea.

On a couple of afternoons I did actually venture out for A Proper Walk, which consisted of me and a couple of other non-walkers huffing and puffing like little steam trains in the background while the others strode off into the distance, but I must admit that The Boots did their job and saw me across some rocky terrain to greet some beautiful views:

Most evenings, however, I would forgo any more strenuous activities in favour of the relatively gentle twenty minute stroll up to Le Prairion Hotel - or The Pav, as it is fondly known to the Chaletites. Those people who had been out walking for the day or afternoon would generally find their way back here before returning to the Chalet for a shower and dinner, and the Chaletites who had remained at base camp all day would usually make the trip up to the top for a pre-dinner stretch of the legs, and a bottle or two of the local Beer of Choice:

Personally I have never been able to like beer, however pretty the bottle, so stuck to Kir for my evening tipple - and sipping my delicious drink whilst admiring a double rainbow across the mountains is something that will stay with me for a very long time. This is where we would generally sit of an evening:

Looking out towards Mont Blanc (although the summit itself is hidden):

After this we would wend our way back down the mountain path to the Chalet, to enjoy whatever delights our wonderful cooks had concocted for us (and to see whether they had managed to find any inspired ways to use up the forty wheels of cheese left for us by the Univ chalet party...), before we decamped to the salon for some candle-lit conviviality before bed.

Tomorrow, I will blog a little about Books at the Chalet - both mine, and others... I shall leave you with a few words on the subject from Sir W's 1600 essay 'Of the Obseruation, and the Vse of Things', and you may be relieved to hear that, although the toilet system at the Chalet was somewhat primitive (ahem), we never quite had to resort to this:

'All kinde of bookes are profitable, except printed Bawdery; they abuse youth: but Pamphlets, and lying Stories, and News, and two penny Poets I would knowe them, but beware of beeing familiar with them. My custome is to read these, and presently to make vse of them, for they lie in my priuy, and when I come thither, and haue occasion to imploy it, I read them, halfe a side at once is my ordinary, which when I haue read, I vse in that kind, that waste paper is most subiect to, but to a cleanlier profit.'

Of Many Happy Returns

Just a brief post today to announce that I Am Back - and still all in one piece, having managed to avoid rolling down the mountain side, falling out of the cable car, or withering away from high heel withdrawal symptoms. The trip to the Chalet des Anglais was simply fantastic, and I will be using the next two or three blog entries to talk about it in detail, as there is far to much to share in one post. Suffice to say at the moment that I am a complete convert to alpine living and have even been persuaded that I may be able to try skiing in the area next year. Miracles, as they say, do happen!

For now, I will just share a picture of the delicious and wonderful birthday cake which my chalet companions baked for me - no mean achievement in the somewhat temperamental ovens:

It was certainly a birthday to remember, much of it spent lazing away in the brilliant sunshine (we were tremendously lucky with the weather across the entire trip) on the chalet's 'croquet lawn' (unfortunately now somewhat trampled by wild boar...) with a book (and I only have Good Things to report about my reading choices). There was plenty of pleasant conversation and much laughter, and an excellent birthday dinner after a pre-dinner Kir (or three) sipped whilst looking out toward the sunset over the mountains. Bliss!

I miss it all already, but after my ten days of beautiful scenery and alpine tranquility, mixed with some surprisingly good chalet cooking and a healthy (?) enjoyment of chalet wine, all topped off with some wonderful books and conversation, I feel rejuvenated; and have left my temporary home to come back to Oxford ready 'for the entertaining of all fortunes', as Sir W describes in his 1600 essay 'Of Aduise':

'I would allow a man to keepe the house no longer then till hee be able to flie, vntill his mind and body are able to carrie themselues without falling, not vntil hee bee past reeling, and staggering, for that abilitie we neuer haue: but in this time let bookes, and Aduise rectifie, and prepare vs fit for the entertaining of all fortunes.'

Of Becoming A Chalet Girl

Today is the day! My friend and I have a taxi coming to collect us at 4pm to take us to Oxford railway station, where we'll meet another friend, and travel on together to London. Then it's a skip along the tube line to St Pancras International to catch the Eurostar, and the holiday will really begin! We change trains at Paris, and then settle onto our transport for the rest of the journey - a sleeper train down through France to St-Gervais-les-Bains. I have never been on a sleeper train before so am wildly excited. We arrive tomorrow morning, just after nine, when we'll jump onto a cable car and make our way up into the mountains towards our final destination: Le Chalet des Anglais:

The chalet is part owned by three Oxford colleges - New College, University College, and Balliol. Every summer each of them takes two groups of students - a mixture of undergrads and graduates (a couple of Fellows go too) - for breaks of about ten days. This year, I'm going on the first of the New College trips. I have always thought the chalet trips sounded romantic, like an old-fashioned reading party from days of yore. And yet, I've never braved one of them before. Partly because of the rather basic conditions - there is no electricity, and what is described as an 'ingenious' shower arrangement in the pre-trip notes ... although I think that's probably all rather fun once you get used to it, and I'm hoping to dredge up some memories from the many camping trips I went on as a child to remind myself that Getting Back To Nature can actually be great fun. At least here I'll have a proper bed, and hopefully the chalet won't get blown down in the night, as happened on one particularly memorable campsite... But the main reason I've never dared venture into the Alps before is because I Have Vertigo. And I'm going to spend ten days on a mountain. Hmm. When I say I have vertigo, I mean it - I can't sit anywhere but the stalls at the theatre, I cling onto people for dear life and shut my eyes if I have to cross a bridge over the Thames, and I regularly freak out at unexpected drops and stairwells. I'm fine if I'm behind glass (I was able to go up almost to the top of the Rockefeller Center on a recent trip to New York, as long as I stayed behind the massive picture windows and didn't actually venture out onto the roof), so the cable car doesn't faze me, but afterwards... Therefore, I am more than a little nervous about the idea of being up a mountain for over a week. But I have been assured by people who know me, know my vertigo, and know the chalet, that I Will Be Fine, that the slopes around the chalet are actually very gentle and wooded, and as long as I don't trot off along particular walks with a precipice at the end of them, All Will Be Well. Hmm, we'll see! I'm hoping perhaps it will at least offer a kind of immersion therapy, and who knows, perhaps I'll come back a changed woman, singing the praises of alpine life. Or a gibbering wreck.

We go for ten days, and there'll be about twelve of us there. A couple of people I know very well, some just to say hello to, and the rest not at all, so it should be an interesting experience. Hopefully I won't end the ten days with a deep desire to throw them all (or myself) off the side of the mountain - at least I have all my lovely new books to read if I need to escape for a while! There are also going to be several alumni staying at a hotel a short distance away (a hotel! At least I can run away there if the need for creature comforts becomes too much to bear!), as this year is the 100th anniversary of the chalet itself, and several old members have been invited to join the party. I'm looking forward to meeting them, and to hearing how things have changed (or not) in the past decades. Apparently one of these guests is a great bibliophile, and has an amazingly extensive collection of sixteenth and seventeenth century rare books, some of which he is (brave man) going to bring with him. The undergraduate tutor who taught me for the Early Modern period is also going to be one of the party, and is going to bring some of his collection too - so it looks like I won't get too many withdrawal symptoms from dusty old books while I'm away, although I can see myself becoming absolutely green with envy as they show off their treasures! 

I spent the morning packing my borrowed rucksack, which now seems to weigh as much as a small car. Luckily the walk from the cable car to the chalet is, I am told, a very gentle fifteen minute downhill stroll ... I am hoping this is not one of those fifteen minute strolls that turns out to be an hour's hard hike... Still, despite the thought of this, and of having to wear The Boots for ten days solid, I am actually now getting really tremendously excited about the whole affair. New College has the reputation for being the most relaxed and fun-loving of the three college trips (well, of course!) - probably due to the fact that they order in vast quantities of wine at the beginning of the stay... While I am away I shall also be turning 23 - it will certainly be a birthday like I've never experienced before. I wonder if I'll get a cake?

Obviously I won't have internet access while I am away, so the blog will resume normal service once I'm back - hopefully with some suitably frivolous alpine frolics to share. In the meantime, despite my nerves about my forthcoming adventure, I will leave you - as Sir W sweetly put it in his 1600 essay 'Of Affection' - with

'a pacient farewell, without disturbance or feare.'

Au revoir!