Thank You Oxford

On March 4 the Heathrow bus dropped me off on High St. Bleary eyed, I lifted my head and saw the plaque to Boyle on the stone wall beside me, and it made me smile. I dragged my broken suitcase across the cobblestones to the gate at Oriel, where they were not expecting me. But a few phone calls later, I found myself in a comfortable room right in the city, where I enjoyed my first night.

At first, with weariness and disbelief that I should find myself here at all, there was only the shock of a functioning city, with its crowds and its garbage, its generosity and corruption. My student room on Cowley Rd was noisy at night, and it was over three months before I finally settled at home in Norham Rd.

And then it was summer. I had discovered the quietest corners of the large college gardens, my favourite chapels, and my favourite walks in the countryside. I was taken to lunch and dinner at Jesus and Balliol colleges. There were wonderful mathematics workshops and endless lectures to attend. The physicists were friendly. What more could I ask for than this? I will not forget you.

One night an old man at the Sheldonian told me that, in recent years, the light had changed. He said that now when he looked at the Magdalen tower in the afternoon, it did not seem real. We looked across the street to Trinity, and it was a beautiful night.

Fare well, Oxford. How fortunate I am, to have seen your dreaming spires.