Out and about in Oxford – some local art

Every now and then I like to cater for the tastes of my artistically inclined Friends & Relations, and such is the case today.  Yesterday I had breakfast & newspapers in Headington, just up the Hill from the centre of Oxford where I live.  Since there was a short break in the torrential downpours we have been having I had a little wander around the area.  Usually on these occasions I see something nice and worthy of a photograph, only to discover that I forgot my little camera yet again.  But this time it was still lurking in my bag from my recent epic trip, so I was able to take a few photos.

The Headington Shark is quite a landmark in Oxford.  I remember some 25 years ago when it had first come on to my radar.  The artist had been refused planning permission to put it up, I forgot where, and the students of my college passed a motion that the shark be acquired by that institution and stuck into the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ – a badly chosen nickname, in my opinion, since it looks more like the Rialto Bridge than the real Bridge of Sighs, although it is possible (though highly unlikely) that the name was chosen because exam candidates were herded across it before having to take exams or some such thing.  However that may be, the bridge is the most photographed object of Oxford, and governing body refused point-blank to even consider sticking the shark into it.



Apparently there were many similar, equally surreal suggestions, from other quarters regarding a suitable location for the artistic shark, all vetoed by outraged grown-ups or the city council.  Eventually the shark found its current resting place in Headington, in the roof of the home of a local radio celebrity.  Occasionally one hears rumours of indignant neighbours or officious building inspectors, but the shark is now a permanent fixture in the area and is probably safer than his flesh & blood relatives in the watery wastes.  Over the years I have become quite attached to it, and it never fails to cheer me up when it comes into view.

During a walk today with my friend Z we came across another local piece of art, less impressive to be sure but quite striking and pleasant to encounter during a Sunday afternoon.

Holidays, anyone?

It’s that time of year again when holiday plans are made, or, as in my case, un-made.  I had vaguely planned to have a week in la Bourboule in April, but since the Honoured Ancestor is having heart troubles again and needs the support of his descendants, I had to change tack.  Instead of taking the Eurostar to Paris and then on to la Bourboule, I shall grace Brussels with my presence and go on to Bremen.  Next Friday I will assist the sun in his rising by bearing witness – I shall be passing the Gap of Oxfordshire right around that time, I figure – and spend the day travelling through northern Europe.  I don’t recall having ever been in Brussels before, and am quite looking forward to seeing it, even if just through the window of a train. 

The following Friday I shall return.  It seems rather daft missing the weekend, but since I had to book at the last minute I had to take what was available, in this case tickets on Friday the Thirteenth.  For once the superstitions of my fellow human beings worked out in my favour – they are obviously all going to be holed up at home, leaving the roads and trains to foolhardy fate-tempters like me.

La Bourboule shall have to wait until the Summer.  It will be tricky timing, because I need to be at work for the first three weeks of August and then from the middle of September.  This leaves a window of opportunity of exactly three weeks!  The Damsels des les Isles Britanniques were obliging as always, but the Eurostar tickets could prove difficult.  The last week in August contains the August bank holiday, so there is every chance that the multitude will book a long weekend Paris city break – may their collective beards wither!  I shall have to check every day in April to book a cheap ticket, because they will sell like hotcakes and I am loathe to pay full price.

But well, luckily I have the brains, enterprise, and patience necessary to snatch one of those elusive cheap return tickets from the jaws of the profit-maximising Eurostarlings, so am not unduly worried.  More worrying to me is the timing of the holiday.  I would have preferred a later time, since excessive heat is not my idea of a holiday, but with a bit of luck it will be unseasonably cold and snow all the time.  You just never know how the weather in la Bourboule turns out, just about anything is possible in those mountains.

This is going to be a home-focussed sort of year.  Over the Summer I shall avoid travelling altogether, on account of the Sporting Extravaganza scheduled in London.  Instead of frequent trips to foreign lands I will renovate the Little House.  It needs a bit of work done, some painting and deep cleaning at the very least – not in that order, hopefully.  I already made a good start last week by scraping a few centimetres off the front door.  It has been sticking for about a decade, and it took real skill to open it.  First a certain type of pull, then a push at just the right spot, a perfectly executed turn of the key – even I sometimes needed a few tries!

I had always reasoned that this was as good a burglar deterrent as anything sold in the shops, but things went from bad to worse recently, and when I almost did not manage to get into the house one day I knew that action had to be taken.  I borrowed a file/scraper from the workmen at the college, partly because I hate spending money on a tool I just need once for an hour or two, partly because I did not want to walk into a shop and ask for a ‘file to break into my house’ – it is the sort of request that frequently leads to misunderstandings.  The file/scraper worked quite well, and after two hours of diligent filing/scraping the door was fixed.  Now all I have to do when I wish to enter the Little House is insert the key, turn it, and voila! the door opens.  It is like magic, like living in a fairytale!  Should have done this years ago.