Dick the Morris Dancer and his Mangleworzel

The Half Moon attracts some interesting types. Calling in tonight for a pint I found myself chatting to Dick the Morris Dancer. His first question was whether I played chess. 'Badly,' I replied, 'but yes'.

"Don't suppose you happen to be carrying a chess set on you, by any chance?" he asked next. Sadly, I'm not in that habit, but then he explained that he'd come in for a game with a friend who had stood him up. Undeterred, we went on to chat about his retirement project, which involves him travelling throughout England documenting folk traditions which he hopes to publish in a book before he dies. He's up to about 250 and thinks he'll stop somewhere between 275 and 300. That's a lot of folk stuff to carry around in one head. I was impressed.

I was even more impressed by his word for the day - Mangleworzel. A mangelworzel is, apparently, rather like a gourd, but orange in colour, a bit like a pumpkin. Once upon a time, somewhere in England (Devon, I think he said) the women of a certain village decided they were fed up with the blokes going off to secret meetings to drink plonk, particularly because the menfolk tended to take all the lanterns with them. Resolved to give their husbands a collective piece of their minds, they grabbed all the mangleworzels they could find, hollowed them out and put candles in them and set out up the hill. The men, seeing eerie orange lights approaching them in the night, promptly decided the devil was after them, and fled.

Having shared several such tales, Dick decided that it was too late for chess, and headed home. He jammed his Morris hat on his head - a battered straw number adorned with a riot of fake flowers that looked totally at odds with his grizzled hair and straggly beard - poked some music, his tobacco and a roll of loo paper back into his bag, and set off into the night.

He was loads more entertaining than the pair of drunks I was left with in the bar...

My husband the Master of Trebuchet...

Remember all my drooling a few weeks back about the cool job on offer at Warwick Castle? Well guess who applied for it - and won!

Yes dear readers, the lovely Anthony will be spending the next 7 months working full time as assistant Master of Trebuchet at one of England's most famous medieval castles, firing a 22 tonne wooden monster that slings a 20kg concrete ball a mighty 250 metres. At night time events they'll even send down the occasional fireball...

I so can't wait to see my bloke in woollen tights and a codpiece! Huzzah and Wassail! ;-)

Ants' first ceilidh

I've finally introduced Ants to that amazing English folk tradition, the Ceilidh, and learned a lot more about this special world along the way.

Along with the highly regionalised music - there really IS a book called 'Folk Songs of the Upper Thames' that covers Oxford! there are some other very important lessons:
1. Wear comfortable shoes
2. Wear layers - those scout halls get warm with 80 sweating bodies inside - and you DO sweat
3. Take a bloke to dance with, otherwise you and your galpals end up taking turns being the boy.
4. If you grab each other round the waist and get your feet in the right position, you can spin around REALLY fast....

From sunbathing to snow...

Last week, one of the girls spent a day off work sunbathing in glorious sunshine. Okay, she was maybe a little keen, because it was still only 15 degrees. But Di's a northerner, so doesn't feel the cold. And it WAS glorious after so many months of cold and grey.

This week, mother England flexed her weather with a vengeance. So far it's snowed every damn day since Sunday, when a sunny afternoon bike ride turned to sleet and shite in the time it takes to do a week's grocery shopping. Yes, Ants and I had to ride home in it. Brrrr!

Have to admit though, this morning it was kinda pretty - Ants woke up for work to find the outside world coated in fluffy whiteness, from the tips of the fresh green grass to the tallest rooftop. It lasted til mid morning, when the sun came out.

Melbourne's four seasons in one day has found some stiff competition...

Paddy's day with a difference

Topping last year's St Pats day effort was always going to be a big ask, but this year, I have to say, was no less a day to remember. For a start, this year it fell on a Saturday. My sister-in-law Nicola (gods, that still feels so weird to say!) came up for the weekend and we all jumped the bus up to Kidlington - a villagey-suburbey thing to the north of Oxford - to watch the last games of the 6 Nations Rugby tournament; at a pub owned by an Irishman; who also happens to play rugby for the local team: Gosford Allblacks. How do we know this? Because my workchum Z's blokey, Marc, also plays for the Allblacks. The stage was set for a VERY big drinking day.

(For an irish pub, the 'Six Bells' does amazingly good Thai food - we'll have that again! But I digress. )

So we all-but-cried when Ireland got hussled out of top spot in the Tournament by a determined (and, for mine, decidedly dirty) French team who scored seconds before the final whistle - just not right on Ireland's national day. We had to pull ourselves together in the evening though, to meet the lads down the road at the Woodstock Arms for England Wales. Zenta, Ants and I, plus one other bloke, were - unsurprisingly- the only ones backing Wales... but damn me if the buggers didn't pull one out to win!

Anthony was a huge hit with the rugby lads - one look at his size was enough, but once they worked out he was a kiwi to boot, they were all over him to play. Brian, the team veteran, and a not overly tall chap who likes a pint or five, spent about an hour muttering 'just look at those hands - they could hold a ball alright' to anyone who would listen.

He was almost as funny as the bloke who sat next to me, looked at my chest and said 'I'm sorry, but they're fantastic. Are they paid for?' I'll rant some other time about the tendency for the English - male and female - to treat a woman's breasts as public property... Sigh. Hmmm. Dilemma: do I slap him and get chucked out of my first english pub, or explain it in the only language a chauvinist idiot will understand?

"They're all my own work, actually, although my husband did choose the very clever bra that's helping them out."

"So where's your husband tonight then?"

Hook, line, sinker. I nodded in Anthony's direction, Pissed Lad took one look, muttered 14 kinds of Sorry and spilled his pint in his haste to get away from me. In 2 minutes flat every girl in the room was laughing at him. I think he bought Ants and me a round - although I'd lost count by that stage.

Oh, best bit, the team captain turns out to be an Invercargill lad, a year or two ahead of Ants in school. He was dead impressed that Ants had played u-19s for Southland. My husband may yet don an Allblacks jersey... watch this space!

A sword in the hand...

I don’t know why it took me nearly a year to start tracking down re-enactor groups in and around Oxford, but once I started, they proved startlingly easy to find. It turned out that Hwitmearum, the local branch of self-confessed authenti-enthusiasts Regia Anglorum, just so happened to be running a joint training last Sunday with local Oxford Uni group Wychwood Warriors. With great enthusiasm I hopped on my spanking new pushbike to go check out the fun.

The directions I had were very clear, and the ring of metal on metal gave their position away quite quickly. And the people were lovely and welcoming and quickly agreed that I could fight at the same standard as they could, and I was most welcome to join in. Being an Oxford Uni club, Wychwood sports extensive training kit (gloves and shields, even spare swords!) which I was able to borrow. And remembering to fight without headshots was made easier by the fact that most people (including me) weren't wearing helmets.

So we ran around in solid, soaking rain for two whole hours (actually, most of them had been there for a lot longer), turning a large part of the playing field to mud, before retiring, sodden and starting to rust, to the pub, to scoff crisps by the bag and swap stories about Great Shows We Have Done... with Hastings high on the list for all concerned!

I can’t wait to go again. But I do hope it isn’t pissing with rain next time…

The resting place of kings and consorts

I can't believe I've been here a year and only yesterday made it down to Westminster Abbey. Newcomers to England be warned - it costs 10 quid (thats $25 in Australian money) to get in. But I swear it was worth every penny.

There's something quite spectacular about the notion that in this most modern of cities, which has rebuilt itself from the ground up at least 3 times, here by the banks of the Thames has stood a place of spiritual significance for more than a thousand years.

The first thing that struck me about the cathedral is that the inside looks much bigger on telly. It was only after I'd spent about 3 hours wandering around and looking at EVERYTHING that I came to the bit that explains that for coronations, royal weddings etc they put in scaffolds and temporary seating for about 3000 people. Must confess I got the giggles thinking of Her Maj ensconsed on a bit of plywood up in the royal box, however elaborately draped in red velvet it may be...

Giggles and televised misconceptions aside, Westminster is truly magnificent. There's been a church dedicated to St Peter here since at least 600AD. The building in its current form (a large part of the floor is still paved with tiles laid in 1268!)was begun by Edward the Confessor, later St Edward, and the bloke who ultimately was the cause of the Norman invasion of 1066, after most inconveniently dying without legitimate issue and allegedly promising the crown to William of Normandy, who took it by force from Harold Godwinson, aka King-Harold-who-was-shot-in-the-eye).

Having won near Hastings, William promptly had himself crowned in St Edward's still unfinished cathedral, starting a tradition that now spans nearly 1000 yeras.

There's still a shrine dedicated to St Edward at Westminster, which you can't actually SEE becase it's apparently very very fragile. It's also surrounded by massive marble tombs of other kings, consorts and other nobles, although if you peek very carefully past the sarcophagus of Philippa of Hainault (1314-69), and don't mind being told off by an attendant, you can see the candles burning and some kind of shrine that supposedly holds his remains. The rollcall of entombed sovereigns is really rather impressive. Edward I, Henry III and Henry V are here along with Henry VII and his wife Elizabeth of York. Curiously, the desecration of cathedrals during Henry VIII's Reformation extended even into this hallowed place, and many of these ancient monarchs have the heads and faces missing from the lower panels of their ornate carved wooden and stone tombs. Somehow Edward III escaped such wanton destruction, and of course later rulers tombs are intact. Elizabeth I is here, along with her older half sister Mary I, and Elizabeth's other nemesis Mary Queen of Scots, who was interred here long after her death by her son James VI &I. The list goes on: Charles I and II, William and Mary, Queen Anne, all housed in 'families'.

Perhaps the prettiest part of the abbey is Poet's corner, which holds the body of Chaucer and monuments to countless other English literary greats (buried elsewhere), including Shakespeare, Byron, and a legion of controversial sorts renowned for distinctly unChristian tastes in their time, including DH Lawrence (obviously somebody liked 'Lady Chatterley' then!), Lewis Carroll and Oscar Wilde.

The coronation seat, used since - although happily it's now minus the Stone of Scone on which Scotland's kings were crowned, which was nicked by Edward I (better known as Longshanks, and several less lovely names if you're Scottish) and only returned to Scotland in 1996.

I had to wonder how it must feel, in these modern times, to be a royal here on official business and know that you are descended from the bones interred around you. The ancient practice of knights and future sovereigns spending a night in the church in contemplation suddenly took on a whole new meaning. Do they wonder whether they are worthy, or fear being just the teensiest bit of an anticlimax after all this greatness that has gone before them?

I left late in the afternoon with my head spinning from tales of the abbey museum, having stood on the 14th Century floor of the Chapter House, where Parliament once sat, and touched England's oldest door (certified at more than 1000 years old!). But perhaps the highlight of my afternoon was the fact that I'd talked my way into that part of the building after closing time...
the 1000 year old door.

John Howard finally has a bright idea

I've come back to work to lots of questions about how big an issue climate change is in Australia.

I have to say I was impressed during my trip home. While by no means as top of mind as in the UK, the hot air on climate change is much more high profile than it was a year ago. (So it should be - it's only the single biggest challenge facing life on earth... but I digress). It's not really hard to see why. The ongoing drought, predictions of permanent water shortages as climate change reduces over all rainfall, while causing bigger and more frequent tropical downpours and flash flooding are all, it seems, having an impact.

But don't expect anything radical, I predicted, as long as the current government is in power.

So I was surprised - and no end pleased! - to find my home turf has announced a world first. Australia will become the first country to ban the humble tungsten filament light globe - the one that has barely changed since its invention in the 19th century.

The Age newspaper has all the goss.

Beer goggles explained

Apparently someone has come up with a formula that explains the ‘beer goggles’ phenomenon. You won't believe it, but if you combine a number of risk variables - lots of alcohol, a dark and smoky pub, and someone half way across the room - you're much more likely to think someone is really gorgeous… when they’re not. Bingo, you become one of the 68% of people who have regretted giving their number to someone on the morning after the night before…

The BBC has all the goss: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/4468884.stm

A proper Oxonian

Three events this week have made me feel like a proper Oxonian for the very first time...

First, I bought a bicycle. Everyone who is anyone in Oxford has a bicycle, and the city is quite well set up for them. Cycle paths are everywhere, and funky little loops embedded in footpaths and walls that people can chain up to, not to mention literally a thousand spaces outside the train station (it was one of the first things I noticed when I came for my interview here - ooh ah, bike friendly town!).

One of the weirdest things ever is to watch cyclists and buses jostling for position on the high street in morning peak hour (cars are, very sensibly, banned!), but that's another story.

My bike is purple (can you tell from this blog that I maybe like purple??) and it was 70 quid in a 'scratched and dented' sale in a local bike shop. And now I don't have to live my life according to the once-an-hour-on-Sundays bus timetables that run in Marston. And I feel like a proper Oxonian now.

Getting a bike meant acquiring new keys. I've lived for months now with just one key for my house, rattling loose in my wallet. (Compared to in Melbourne, where within 24 hrs of arriving, I found myself clutching two sets of car keys, two sets of housekeys and a key to our storage unit. I was only going back for a month!). Now, suddenly, I have a bike lock key, a key to the padlock on the shed where my bike sleeps at night, and a Tesco keyfob for accruing loyalty points. I lashed out and put them all on a keyring. Just like normal people who are based in one place and not travelling the world...

Last but not least, I knew I'd given my heart to this town when I got all bristly when I read Bill Bryson's rant about Oxford being ugly. How dare he? He can't slag off my new home like this... I forced myself to read to the end, and realised that he was actually having a go at that peculiar collection of buildings around the council chambers, which are indeed an eyesore, and which are also, tragically, on the main busroute for coaches to/from London so in full view of many tourists... but really, to write off the whole town like that is up there with saying all of Melbourne is unsightly just because of one Yellow Peril....

The Countess of Warwick and the Trebuchet master...

Searching through the website for Warwick Castle, I found myself getting excited over the long list of Earls of Warwick. There, nestled among 39 blokey earls (and a couple of periods as crown property, courtesy of those dodgy old Dudleys) was a lone countess. Anne Beauchamp was the 15th Countess of Warwick from 1446-1459. (Odd, isn't it when there was only one of them)

I was intrigued. Wondering what calamity had caused her to lose her title after just three years (the mundane options, like death in childbed, never occurring to me), and certain that I'd found another great medieval woman to study, I raced first to Wikipedia... only to discover a far less glamourous truth than I'd imagined. The poor lamb never even got to face the rigors of childbirth - you see, poor old Countess Anne was just two when she inherited her title, and died of an unspecified childhood illness just three years later. Aged 5.

She was succeeded by an aunt's husband, who became the 16th Earl of Warwick (again, I'm getting pedantic over this counting thing) and the most famous Warwick of all - Richard Neville, known as the Kingmaker for his skill in putting first York, then Lancaster, on the throne during the Wars of the Roses.

Now, if you had read our adventures in November, you may remember that Warwick castle is also home to the world's largest trebuchet (that's a medieval seige engine, for the uninitiated).

And in my adventures today, I learned that Warwick Castle is looking for a Trebuchet Master to work full time over the summer, doing displays and stuff. What a cool job! Can you imagine it on your own CV? Or going home to Aus - 'what did you do in England?'... Oh, I worked as a Trebuchet Master in a castle"...

My hopes were dashed, however, when I read the job description. Now equal opportunity rules in this country are as good as anywhere, so they can't say 'we only want blokes for this job'. However, they convey the same effect nicely with this statement:
"For authenticity reasons the successful post holder will need to be able to convey the physical appearance of a male.

We believe in equality of opportunity and employ people solely on the basis of their abilities."

My workmates Pete and Will were quick to point out that some of Molvania's best women weightlifters would probably have no problems meeting the criteria... But I was crushed.

Spring is sprung...

Early.

When I arrived in the UK a year ago today, the landscape was, to say the least, bleak. And leaves didn't truly appear on trees until at least April.

This year, I came back from Aus to find that, although it had snowed the week before, several hardy trees were already putting forth fragile blossoms. Over the fortnight since, not only have the days grown an hour longer (at least!), but daffys and other bulbs have started pushing up their green shoots, so that roadside verges everywhere are now a riot of green and gold, and fruit trees are in bloom everywhere you look.

The poet in me feels as though spring's arrival was more dramatic after what had clearly been a long cold winter in these parts. The part of me that lives here just loves that there was real warmth in the sun this morning and it shone nearly all day. Bring on the turning seasons. Really.