28 Nov. 2010: Port Meadow

 

Although I've been outside the borders of the U.S. several times, from Canada, the Caribbean and Prague's Old Square to the coastlines of Ireland and Italy, no city has captured my attention quite like Oxford. I'm aware that this is a biased claim to make since I've spent more time in Oxford alone than all of the above combined, but there is something completely unique about it. No other place can reproduce or emulate the character and quality of Oxford, and it's difficult to explain exactly why unless you've wandered the alleys, streets or river paths yourself. When I wasn't holed up in the third floor stacks of the Bodleian Library, ferociously typing away, or escaping to the pubs after mental exhaustion, there was nothing better than slipping on my Brooks and going for a run along the Thames (as seen above). When I first heard that the Thames River (pronounced temz) ran through Oxford, it took me a few days to realize that the gently flowing waters I ran next to were actually the same as the grand Thames of London, which is much wider, making the Thames of Oxford look like a trickle in comparison. Though Oxford's Thames, also called the River Isis, is much smaller in scale, I'd argue it's much more impressive than its London counterpart. As gorgeous as London is by night, when the city's lights are mirrored on its dark surface, the urban Thames lacks the vivid natural expanse that Oxford's banks provide. I've walked the banks of London's Thames, in daylight and dusk, passing the Tower Bridge, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, and watching the looming spindle of the Tower of London cast its history over the cityscape, and yet I can't help but think how sad and unappealing the city's Thames is. There's no green color brightening its shore or slender, polished riverboats tied to its banks, no swans gliding its surface, tree branches reaching over its waters, old men smoking pipes, fishermen casting their lines in the gentle current, small footbridges to cross, or best of all, Port Meadow (below).
 

I'll never forget the moment I first ran west along Oxford's Thames, when I turned off the pavement of Botley Road and heard the crunch of gravel beneath my Brooks as I ducked beneath a willow to start a new route. At any given point in my run, as I gulped in the crisp air, I could see about fifty feet ahead of me, although there were plenty of blind corners, unforeseen turns, and narrow, one-person wooden bridges. I had no idea how far this path went, so I decided to run as far away from the reading and writing that awaited me at my flat. Anything but more deep thought and comprehension and contemplation and confinement. I needed freedom, nature, wind, space, sky above; I craved it. It was thrilling to be running out of breath, to have no idea where I was headed, to pass rickety house boats built with plywood and painted like a patchwork quilt, to peer inside cozy, floating homes of artists and eccentrics, to get a glimpse into the life of these wandering, river people. Candlelight would often flicker against the boat's walls as bikes precariously rested on deck. Bottles and vases lined window ledges, music drifted out of open doors, occasional bits of conversation could be heard. I was lost in thought, really wanting to befriend one of these older, wandering people who called this kind of floating plywood home, when the thick woods and brambles that bordered the other side of the path started to thin. The dense woods began to look different, alluding to the wide open space I hoped for after days inside. I watched my feet rhythmically hit the gravel, hearing its faint crunch beneath me, as Coldplay sang on, drowning out any thought I tried to hold onto. And then my heart s.t.o.p.p.e.d. For the first split second, terror coursed through my veins, because something large and alive and stunning was blocking my path. I stopped dead in my tracks, for this beautiful, white creature was waiting for me around a hairpin turn.

After I regained my sanity and realized this was not a bear or enormous dog or beast of my nightmares, I put Coldplay on pause. I was no more than five feet away from this beauty before I realized he was even standing there, grazing away. And he wasn't alone. There was his GIANT friend, seven feet tall to his shoulder alone, shaking his mane, and down the path a few more feet, even more friends. In shades of pure black, white, brown... some seemed friendly, others annoyed by my sudden presence, but most were disinterested. It was then, and only then, standing there in awe of this magical white horse, did I realize what lay before me: Port Meadow. A gorgeous, green expanse of pasture, where horses and cows dotted the bumpy terrain, grazing alongside each other and the Thames' muddy banks. And so I stood there, completely alone, catching my breath, in disbelief of such surreal surroundings that were mine to soak in... To be running along a gravel path, the Thames on one side, dense woods on the other, and to be so unexpectedly hit (almost literally) by the presence of this magical white horse, who, like I, paused what he was doing to take me in. We just stared at each other, his glossy brown eyes reflecting branches and green grass, unblinking for a moment. I know it was just a horse, whose main concern is gorging himself on greens and running free around the meadow, but there was something undeniably unique about him. I guess it was the fact that it wouldn't have surprised me in the least bit if he started talking. I almost expected that he would. And then to look up and discover I was in the midst of farm animal heaven: quacking ducks, grazing geese, lazy cows and a herd of horses in all shapes, sizes and colors, meandering in the endless meadow. How was I the only one witnessing this? Did I really witness this? To this day, I'm convinced I've found a way into Narnia. Or at the very least, I got a glimpse of the outskirts of Heaven.