Woodstock to Wooton - on foot

Spring has come early, and my inconquerable friend Lizzy decided we should celebrate by mustering a small troup of walkers - to go tramping across the countryside. We started in pretty Woodstock, famous for two births: Edward 'The Black Prince' in the 14th century and, rather later, Winston Churchill, whose ancestors were the Dukes of Marlborough, who still live in Blenheim Palace.

Ordnance survey maps firmly in hand, we made our way down pathways, through fields of canola (which the english quaintly persist in calling rapeseed) and down right-of-way trails, which cut through private lands but, if they're traditional thoroughfares, the owners have to maintain them for the general public's access.

My fabulous geek-pal Dan turned out to be a fountain of random knowledge, spotting aglow-worm beside the trail (and showing us how to determine its sex! It was female...), then dating a farmhouse to the late 15th century by the shape of its windows.

My favourite vista though, was this wee warning sign...

We returned to Woodstock for lunch in a rather gorgeous little 'gastro-pub' called The Black Prince, and left some hours later with happy tastebuds. Must do this again some time...

Time to throw sticks at Aunt Sally

Now that the sun has started to shine, pubs throughout Oxon (that’s English shorthand for ‘Oxfordshire’) have started sprouting notices calling for ‘Aunt Sally’ participants. No, it’s not a fancy dress thing, nor is it technically a drinking game. It’s a pub game - although like pool, or darts, or any other game played in pubs, a pint is generally a required accessory. You can find the rules here but basically it involves throwing sticks at a wooden dolly. Bit mad, really. But in Oxfordshire, people get REALLY serious about it. Good to know my adopted county has contributed something stoopid to the culture of this country…

Easter: A tale of two cities - Kenilworth

The next day, I hopped on a bus 6 miles to Kenilworth, to check out the competition. Kenilworth castle was a royal residence - King John was one of many who made major renovations here, as did John of Gaunt and Henry VIII - and later the home of the Earls of Leicester. It was most famous as the home of Robert Dudley, the reputed lover of Elizabeth I, who hosted the queen here no less than three times.
This weekend though, it was all about earlier times, courtesy of a series of cracking shows by the Plantagenet Medieval Archery and Combat society. I arrived just in time to watch the ladies in all their finery shooting at 'pheasants' - each one re-enacting an historical character from the period, from 'Black' Agnes Randolf, daughter of Randolph, Earl of Moray, who held her castle at Dunbar for 5 months against the beseiging English in 1334, to Elizabeth de Clare, who I later learned endowed Clare College at Cambridge.

It was the lads, however, who stole the show with their awesome "Crecy" display. The Battle of Crecy is one of England's most famous victories against the French. Under Henry V (to whom Shakespeare gave the famous 'on St Crispin's day' speech), an estimated 900 men at arms and 5000 archers held, then routed and crushed, a French army of up to 36,000.

How did they do it? The boys at Kenilworth showed us. A longbowman had to be able to loose at least 10 arrows in a minute to be considered worth his salt. That requires practice but is possible. Six lads took up places, sending between 10 and 17 (!) arrows each into the target. In 60 seconds, it looked like this...

Now, they said, imagine that there are not 6 archers, but 5000. So not 80 arrows a minute, but at least 50,000. One begins to understand how arrows can fall 'like rain' and 'blot out the sun'. The French, unlike the legendary 300 of Sparta, could not fight in the shade - they couldn't even reach the English, over the boggy ground (miring their heavily armoured horses and footsoldiers) and they were cut to pieces.

The English didn't have it all their own way at Kenilworth though... the afternoon finished with a splendid foot tourney, complete with noble lords, an evil knight (the evil ones are always called 'Sir Guy'... why is that), lewd humour and loads and loads of biffo. The crowd loved it. I laughed so hard I nearly cried.

I spent too much money on mead and sweeties and books in the English Heritage shop before heading back to Warwick to gloat.

For the record, this takes my UK tally to 18 castles, 7 Cathedrals and 4 abbeys, four 'henges' and Britain's oldest chalk horse. Not bad for 12 months work.

Easter: A tale of two castles - Warwick

Now that we know someone on staff, we had to check out the seige action at Warwick over Easter, so Nicola, Lara and I boarded trains and met up for Easter Saturday.

Some of you may remember that I’ve actually been to Warwick castle before – one of the things that inspired Anthony to apply for the job was the wintry day we’d spent in November, wandering rapt from room to room all day, finally watching the sun come out just long enough to throw pale fingers over the battlements before sinking below the horizon… at 4pm.

It's even more gorgeous when the sun's out. See...

We arrived just in time to be drafted into donning tabards emblazoned with Warwick's 'ragged staff' emblem (which made us resemble nothing so much as Santa's little elves), jumping inside the trebuchet's massive hamster wheels to help wind back the arm before Nicola won the honours of helping pull the trigger. (We later gave out prizes to some of Ants' workmates for guessing correctly which of the three of us was 'the sister' and which was 'the missus'.)

I have to bore you with a few facts, because even after 3 weeks in the job, Ants has his spiel down pat and looks totally in his element. Ursa (the bear, taken from the Warwick arms of the 'bear and ragged staff') weighs 22 tonnes, plus a 5 tonne counterweight. She throws 15kg concrete balls a mighty 200metres or more - if fully loaded (she is rated up to a 150 kg payload) she could send it the best part of half a kilometre. And don't the crowd go 'oooh' and 'ahhh' when she lets rip. The fine folks at Warwick say she's the biggest historically accurate trebuchet in the world, made of solid English oak worth £500,000.

And I can't rave about seeing my blokey in full flight without showing you how much he looks the part....
Warwick also keeps its own birds of prey - and didn't we all duck when the vulture swooped over our heads! Although it was the regal eagle that really stole the show.

Of course, it wouldn't be a seige weekend if there wasn't some fancy display combat - England really is a re-enactors' paradise during 'the season', and competition is fierce for gigs. The Wars of the Roses was the theme of the day - unsurprising, since the most famous Earl of Warwick was Richard Nevile, aka the Kingmaker, who famously switched sides, putting both York and Lancaster on the throne in their turn. Naturally, when the crowd was coaxed into shouting for 'A Warwick, A Warwick', some of us just HAD to put in a cheer for 'A York, A York'... And a good day was had by all.

No joke: I had my shoes shined by a priest this morning...

I was bolting through Cornmarket on my way to the bus when a woman in a long robe asked me if I’d like my shoes shined for free. I was running late so I muttered a quick ‘no thanks, gottagettabus’ as I marched past and thought she was a bit weird.

Karma intervened (see, all gods ARE the one god) and I missed the bus.

So with 15 minutes to kill till the next one, I wandered back into the river of thronging pedestrians. There, outside the church of St Michael at the North Gate (the oldest one in Oxford, apparently) were the parish priesthood in their full frock coats, merrily shining shoes. They explained, as I took a seat and proffered my trusty, dusty Combat boots (it was dress-down day at work) that they'd figured that shining shoes would be far more acceptable to Oxonians - and more sanitary - than washing feet.

I'm not sure what was more impressive, the mirror sheen on my boots, or the fact that at least 3 people at work, when I said "a priest shined my shoes this morning", replied: "Oh like Maundy Thursday, where Christ washed the feet of the disciples before the last supper. Cool."

No, really.

Folksongs of the Upper Thames...

Just when you thought that the parochial regional-ness of this country was all a big outdated exaggeration, there's all the proof you need: there really is a book called ‘Folksongs of the Upper Thames’. It was published in about 1918 but local folkies still love it, I’m told.

I first heard about it this weekend when local folk heroes John Spiers and Jon Boden (voted best duo in Britain by the BBC last year) took the stage at the Oxford Folk Festival with a joke about it being called “Folk Songs of the Swindon district” until PR got hold of it.

(Melbournites, that’d be like taking songs from Croydon or Ringwood and renaming them ‘Folk songs of the Upper Yarra’).

But I digress – the BBC has a great rap for it here. I confess I didn’t make it to the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain, but I wouldn’t have missed Metcalfe, Giles and Woods (aka Graham, Ian and Ian from the pub) for quids, nor Renbourne and Williams (below). The Saturday and Sunday night sessions at the ‘Moon were awesome – sadly, so were the hangovers the next morning…

*progeny of two English folk heroes, Martin Carthy and Norma Waterson, and something of a hero to lots of folky women everywhere. NOBODY should be able to sing so beautifully AND play the fiddle like a demon – and never at the same time!!

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.

Eynsham in flood

I’ve decided that the entire English landscape has become one carefully engineered piece of dirt. From immaculately manicured public open spaces in London (parks and gardens make up 35% of the urban landmass, allegedly more than any other capital city in Europe) to pretty pieces of remnant vegetation and cultivated hedgerows designed to keep cows and cars carefully separated in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible.

Now I learn that even England’s wide green fields have a secondary purpose – they’re all very deliberate floodplains, designed to keep excess water out of the cities during the rainy season. Many of these ‘water meadows’ date to the 15th century, when lowlands would be deliberately flooded in early spring to ensure abundant vegetation once the waters receded.

This winter, those ancient meadows have been flooded for weeks at a time. As the land is so flat, entire areas are only covered to a depth of about 6 inches, but it looks damned impressive when the pretty little river Cherwell, shallow enough for punting and only about 5 metres across, suddenly swells to twice its depth and hundreds of metres across…

If only they could plan their cityscapes with the same skill, functionality and eye for beauty … sigh!

(PS I nicked this photo from Wikipedia - as it's in open cyberspace, I presume that's okay - if it's yours and that's not okay, please let me know!)

Ceilidh capers

I heard recently that the local Green party was running a fundraising ceilidh. I've been hearing about ceilidhs and what fun they are for months- so, I figured, what more could a girl ask for on a chilly Friday night??


My chum Lizzy, who's a ceilidh veteran, jumped at the chance to come along, and we made our way down to a local sports hall, collected the free drinks included with our tickets and proceeded to natter until the band kicked in. I got a wee thrill when Lizzy noted approvingly that I'd dressed in layers (in case things got warm) and brought flat shoes to dance in.


So, what exactly is a ceilidh? I confess now, that apart from being vaguely aware that music, some sort of dancing, and perhaps drinking might be involved, I had no idea what to expect.


That fabulous fount of all knowledge, Wikipedia, tells us that the word is actually Scots Gaelic (silly me, I thought it was Irish), and that what you get at a ceilidh probably depends on which part of Britain (or Ireland) you're in. The honest truth is that a ceilidh (which, by the by, is pronounced cay-lee) resembles nothing so much as a good ol' fashioned bush dance, or barn dance.


And it's such a riot of fun! Beginners need not fear - every ceilidh band includes a 'caller', who not only walks the whole floor through the dance beforehand, but calls every step through the dance... not that this is enough to stop a set (group of 4-8 couples) of complete novices from bollixing the whole thing completely... much to their own amusement and that of most of the floor.


There was no danger of that with this event - Lizzy is a seasoned caller, so knew every step of every dance. As is usual at these things there was a distinct shortage of blokes, so we ended up pairing up a lot of the time, taking turns to be the boy. So I was piloted all over the dance floor with grand style, and even had my first taste of 'ceilidh swing'... nowhere near as salacious as it sounds, it involves some kind of "one hand round their waist, one hand hangin' on to theirs" grip arrangement, and spinning each other around. Really fast.


Can't wait for another one.