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 Combining Necessity and Frivolity

I read this article today, which claims that Heels are Out and Flats are In. Perhaps, perhaps, but although I like a pretty ballet pump as much as the next girl, I'm not sure that the trend for blockish, boyish loafers is one that I'll be following. I am, without a doubt, a heels girl, and wear them practically every day. Today, however, was an exception, for this was the day for breaking in The Walking Boots. I must admit that I've been putting this off ever since I bought them - wearing them at a secluded chalet I accept as a grim necessity, but wearing them around town is another thing entirely. But as we leave for France on Thursday evening, I realised that unless I want to spend next weekend hobbling around like an injured goat, the time, as they say, had come. As a consequence, I have spent today feeling rather as if I had a couple of car tyres strapped to my feet. I admit that The Boots coped admirably with the infamous cobbles around Radcliffe Square, and one might think that this would endear them to me, so often have I complained about the difficulties of crossing this little patch in my usual footwear. It did make me feel that I will no doubt be glad of them when skipping around the rocky mountaintops (can one skip in car tyres, I wonder?), but otherwise, all I felt was a perverse craving for my heels, despite their tempestuous relationship with the cobblestones. Call me masochistic if you will...

I felt so glum after a few hours clomping around like this that I decided to remind myself that I was still a girl by treating myself to a couple of feminine fripperies as far removed from The Boots as possible. I was given this beautiful bracelet by skirmishofwit as a birthday gift at the weekend...

... so how was I to resist when I slipped into Aspire and found these lovely earrings which will match it so well?

After cheering myself with this little purchase, I made my way to M&S to buy supplies for my evening meal, and while I was there I popped into the lingerie section where I picked up a delightful little set in pink and purple silk. I may have to confine my outer garb to The Boots and their ilk while I am at the chalet, following Sir W's advice here - taken from the 1600 essay 'Of Fantasticknesse':

'For Clothes, he that shunnes singularity (for from singularity comes eyther Disdaine, or Enuy), let his Attire be conformable to Custome, and change with Company.' 

But at least I can bask in the satisfaction of knowing that underneath, at least, frivolity reigns supreme!

Of Boots

I make no secret of the fact that I Love Shoes. I have a healthy collection of footwear (some people would say it is so healthy that it could do with being struck by a pandemic and shrinking to half the size. But they would be wrong. Or at least mean-spirited). Boots - both ankle and knee-length - form an important part of this section of my wardrobe. I generally get through at least a couple of pairs every winter, I wear them so much - with dresses, over jeans. Now, normally, buying a new pair of boots would be a joyous event for me. I love going through the different styles, trying to find something a bit different - this past year my favourite pair were some lovely high heeled black ruched leather ones with little buttons all down the side: rather Victoriana inspired. Sadly the Oxford cobbles (you can tell this city was built for men) have done their worst and I rather doubt that the boots will live to see another winter. 

Today, however, I had to buy boots of a rather different kind. In just over a week, I am going on a trip that will take me out of my comfort zone, going to stay for ten days in a chalet in the French Alps somewhere near Mont Blanc (there will be a lot more about this nearer the time!). As I have practically zilch in the way of Practical Clothing, this has entailed some major shopping. This afternoon, came The Walking Boots.

Not quite my usual look, but hopefully they'll stop me skidding down the mountain tracks... Although, according to the Rules of Alpine Life as gleaned from Elinor M. Brent-Dyer's Chalet School books (which I read avidly at a very impressionable age) a minor accident is actually to be encouraged, as it allows the handsome doctor who just happens to be hiking nearby at the time to rush over with some brandy and a supportive arm - from which it is but a short step to marriage, eleven children, and a dog.

Hmm, on second thoughts, perhaps I'll just carry my own hip-flask (filled with whisky, rather than brandy) to use in such an emergency, and send the doctor on his way...

And even if I do find my footwear at the chalet rather boring, I can always remember these words from Sir W, which come from the 1600 essay, 'Of Censuring':

'I hate the dulnesse of my owne feete, and my horses, when I trauel, and cherish the nimblenesse of my thoughtes, which can flie ouer the world in an afternoone.'