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19-10-10

6M

P6

Enduring Pleasures:  Walking the Thames

by

Ann Ellis

sample: LATE SUMMER

Beneath the sky that burning August gives : William Morris

Eynsham to Oxford
Our first walk on the river: dancers, woods and walkers

    Holiday days and light, late night evenings had gone; to be truthful they had never really arrived in 2007. It had been a rotten summer.
The magazines for hot summer fun in winter were enticing. Blue, blue sky and hot, hot shimmering sun, lazily casting a heat gauze on sea and sand very tempting, yet unfortunately these promises did not fit our needs at this particular time. We were aiming for something that was longer lasting than a week in the sun, something to interest us, that could be incorporated in our weekly routines, that was not too strenuous, and would give us a feeling of achievement, whilst encompassing our interests of walking and caravanning.
     There must have been a bout of inspiration from somewhere, yet for the moment it escapes me, we had during the previous weeks discarded other walks for various reasons, but suddenly there it was, not with a roll of drums but a few simple words, Lets walk the Thames.
     It was with a sense of relief that we left the old Swinford Toll Bridge at Eynsham built in the 18th century, to its noisy laborious chores and followed the narrow path down to the river leaving the busy toll crossing behind. It was good to walk into another world. A world free from noise rush and pressure, the air smelt fresher, the pace was slower and people nodded and smiled as we walked. Cyclists peddled past steadily and even the odd dog seemed to have given up barking and appeared content simply to bound along.
    Conditions were good that morning; making easy walking underfoot, no need to negotiate sodden tracks, or jump over muddy puddles as the river quietly followed a lazy path as we approached Eynsham Lock.

    The small hut at the lock-side peered over the water as a busy lockkeeper went about her daily business stopped long enough to pass the time of day. Eager for some contact with river people and glancing towards the lockkeeper’s hut I noticed with interest some small colourful photos of Morris dancers decked out in their bells and ribbons leaping high in the air with their arms and feet beating the air as they jump. Curiosity aroused, as having once been partial to a lively ‘Strip the Willow,’ I am eager to engage the lockkeeper in a discussion about the technical terminology, or ponder the distinction between various teams or sides as they are known in the Morris Dancing World, especially in the local dancing teams from the surrounding villages.
    According to one source it was possible that the Eynsham dancing tradition had been in existence for over 250 years. It was a requirement for membership (as it still is) that the men lived or were born in the village. In the 1920’s the music for the dance was supplied by a simple fiddle. It is pleasing to think that this tradition has survived with vigour and enthusiasm, existing as the river does entwined in each others lives, and so it is with Stella.
    She who has entered our lives by chance, a nodding only degree of acquaintanceship although linked by loose family ties, manifests herself as a mixture of ‘will o’ wisp’ or in plain terms as ‘now you see me now you don’t sort of a dog’, and often the cause of much personal embarrassment.     Working on the theory, for every dark there is light, for every sadness there is a joy, we firmly believe that one day, joy will triumph, or what one could reasonably identify as such, and so our tenuous acquaintanceship with her will one day bring us all joy. It is hard to leave one’s abode without her spotting us, and therefore Stella often accompanies us as we walk.
     On anyone’s terms she is a complicated character, never far from a source of entertainment, amazement or horror. She, one has to admit, is on the small side and is often more inclined to bark her point loudly, thus providing a strong verbal clue to her latest source of curiosity.

    This morning we do not walk alone, spying the photos on the shiny glass window of the lock-keeper’s hut is enough to provide our acquaintance with entertainment. The dry earth starts to rise faster and faster as her leaps and twirls begin to rival those of the Morris Men, a full and vigorous dance follows. I am amazed at her dexterity, not least as her latest twirl takes her to a precarious spot near the water’s edge. There she is now on the tow path prancing and twirling at a smart pace behind D. D who is my route finder, companion, organizer and problem sorter. The occasional leap from our sometime companion as we walk smartly past and away from her loud barking choreography, adds momentum to the still air.

    Easy to let one’s mind wander on a hot sunny afternoon. Suspended time, a quiet river, gentle walking, lazy thoughts and a comfortable path, lead us on to where Wytham Great Wood slides downhill towards the waters edge.

    Glancing upwards into the still, silent, heavily brooding Wytham Wood, it would be easy to imagine the picture that the author Colin Dexter creates about this forest in his novel, The Way Through the Woods. We the readers, can visualise the newly murdered victim’s body being dragged where no leaf stirs, no bird sings, as the body is secreted in the dense undergrowth. An easy spot to quicken one’s step.

     Colin Dexter the author of the tale lives in Oxford and his creation Inspector Morse, is certain that the victim in the story is buried in Wytham Woods. Wytham Woods, depicted as silent and isolated is also used as a background in the painting ‘The Woodman’s Daughter’ by John Everett Millais (a well known 19th century artist.) I move on, untangling my thoughts as I walk from the undergrowth, and now, up-to- speed I am able to pass D slowly, whilst imagining stepping over the mangled body of Stella lying artistically murdered on the towpath under the shadow of the forest.

    The mellow Trout Inn, busy and bustling, begged to be stopped at. It was not a long stop. This being more to do with finances rather than inclination, Inspector Morse who visited the Trout, I am sure would not have had this trouble. In the iconic imagery of Britishness there is something of a keynote definition I feel in our preference for soggy egg sandwiches and hot weak tea that we do to perfection. A peculiarly British pleasure I fear. At least the odd swan floating past with ever open beaks seemed to enjoy our lunch as they bobbed past beneath the arch.
    12th century Godstow Abbey has seen better days. Now it sits peacefully, its 15th century remains forming a pretty ruin. Walking past the relic on an unlit afternoon you can almost see Fair Rosamund (Henry 11 mistress) sitting in a shady quiet corner. Rosamund inspired many poets and artists, including Dante Gabriel Rossetti whose portrait of her hangs in the National Museum of Wales.

    The Victorian painter Evelyn De Morgan paints a rich and vibrant narrative re-telling the tale of the secret hideaway of the lovers at Woodstock (in the grounds of Bleinham Palace) and the discovery of the secret love nest with dire consequences to Rosamund.

   Maybe it was the hot sun, but one could picture the vigorous Henry hunting, and fair young blossoming Rosamund meeting Henry by chance on a hot summer’s day like this.

Chaucer wrote of her:
Madam, ye been of alle beautee shrine
As fer as circled in the mapemounde

    Rosamund was buried here at the abbey after what some considered to be, an untimely and mysterious death.
Perhaps all ruins carry a silent and brooding air about them, almost as if the lives that they knew are still here in the shadows of the air. It is said that Rosamund’s ghost regularly walks the river path in the darkening shadows of a summer’s evening.

   There is a whisper of a wind ruffling our hair as we pass the spot where the abbey ruins stand, summoning Fair Rosamund, Rose of the world.
   The romantic mood continued awhile as we speed on slowly. Not talking but walking. Port Meadow, is flat well grazed land, picturesque, an ancient grazing ground steeped in history, that has never been ploughed. Large numbers of lapwing, golden plover and widgeon use this land all year.
    A pretty spot that provides us with a creative backdrop for our imagination. This attractive meadow is a fitting setting to the end of the tale of Fair Rosamund.
    Suddenly the mood changes. D with his customary smart pace has left me behind. On these occasions no amount of shouting can make him stop.

    Onwards and onwards being his motto.

    Where I had picked up my companions I can only hazard at, but suddenly on the towpath there they were, a noisy threesome, prone to bursts of loud boisterous singing to which they were very kindly determined to include me, as well as their observations on life with all its complexities.

   The loudest and noisiest regaled us all with his latest endeavours to secure a Fair Rosamund of his own. Sufficient to say that like Hercules he had many trials to perform.

   For the remainder of the journey I too (following D’s example) became deaf to the comments of my travelling companions.

   Brief loud remarks punctuated by the sound of struggling led me to believe that the overall ambience was not conducive to quiet reflection.

   The good- hearted and convivial invitation to join the merry band I regret to say fell on deaf ears. Quickening my pace somewhat I can truthfully record that at one point I definitely broke into a trot. Not unlike the late Charles 1st fleeing Oxford. During the English Civil War, Charles had to flee Oxford on horseback, across Port Meadow.
    D waving vigorously from the intricate iron bridge ahead accompanied by the wagging tale of Stella helped to stiffen my resolve and bring to an end my exertions of the morning, as I set a fast pace to remove myself from the merry band of three.

   A cool wind had set in as I strolled the last few yards to the bridge providing a pleasing breeze that now blew over my too hot brow, and brought to a satisfactory conclusion our late summer walk...

 

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