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A nice touch is the vent hose that appears to be, indiscreetly, coming from the attic

The Corridor is a pub and the landlord is fairly traditional–not so much Al Murray’s Pub Landlord, but definitely an affable fellow with a cheery disposition and a take-no-bullshit undercurrent simmering beneath his hippy/beatnik exterior…the pub landlord I would imagine myself to be (quite wrongly as I am delusional) should the happy occurrence ever come to be.

But it is also (from all superficial appearances and the overwhelming lager, cider, and shooter offerings) a youth oriented party place.  I really like this sort of place when it’s dead (like just after opening or when all the youth have left town, both of which were true this visit); unfortunately I was the only customer and you really get the best sense of the bleak nature of the neighbourhood when you get the professional drinkers in that come despite the amateurs that keep the books in the black.  I will have to try again if there’s a heat wave this summer or during the long Christmas break.

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[*kpw = kebab per week for 2013, as noted in an earlier post and the 17th entry for the 2013 Challenge]

If you are trying to do a statistical analysis based on this year’s kebab challenge, you should note that last week’s assertion that the best kebab places are near a good music shop and across from a porn place (see above) is not necessarily the case.  Then again, maybe just noticing these things improves the perceived quality of the meal.

I first went to the Bodrum Fish Bar a year or so ago and was soundly disappointed, but this was pretty tasty despite initial appearances.  The elephant leg was a leftover and only about 6 inches in diameter; as the first customer of the day I saw it before the space heater that cooks it was turned on and was impressed and disturbed by the large, white globules of congealed fat.  The heat melted these well and the meat, which was less like minced meat than expected and in fact appeared to retain a bit of the original muscular structure, wasn’t salty or fatty once the mass was assembled.

Overall, the chilli sauce was awesome and the tomatoes fantastic and generously apportioned (I got four on the small kebab) but the lettuce was browning (crisp, but old) .  Not a kebab for the beginner, I would definitely stop here again following a Cowley Road drinking session.

There are two Bodrum’s on this block, but Bodrum is the most common kebab shop name in this country and I have had some very good and very bad kebabs at Bodrum’s past.  {Bodrum is a Turkish resort city known as Halicarnassas in ancient times, and renowned for its cuisine, ironically.}

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[*kpw = kebab per week for 2013, as noted in an earlier post and the 16th entry for the 2013 Challenge]

This was absolutely fantastic.  I have meant to try Meli for years now but never really think about it until I am in the little recessed location for something else (there’s an awesome musical instrument shop nearly next door).  Also, it is almost always populated with the sort of pretentious yuppie pricks that keep you from enjoying a meal as you try not to argue with their ridiculous and self-serving pronouncements.

This visit, I was confronted with three such arseholes; one was writing his novel over a cup of coffee and took up all the space at one of the four-seat tables while the other two, deep in conversation about how spiritual each of them was apparently were so spiritual they needed the remaining two tables to host their otherworldly companions…bitches. I ordered a gyro to go and took it out into the light snow of this bitter and endless winter.

The hostess had apologized for only having beef today (I really wanted lamb or, better, a mixture like shoarma or döner), but the succulent chunks of stewed beef were delicious.  The veg was good, too, and the pita (which she bothered to split and fill instead of just dumping the filling on top) tasted fresh if not homemade.

The highlight was the tsasiki sauce, though, with enough garlic to creep into the sinuses and a hint of sesame on top of the thick yoghurt and dill mix I could live years with only this and bread for sustenance.  However, if you see the shop across the street (see above photo) hosing out the booths…that ain’t tsasiki.

 

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This was quite a nice find.  While hunting an early lunch from the copious collection of takeaways on the Cowley Road (none of which would be able to put a kebab or fish & chips together until noon:30) I noted the Big Society‘s doors open and followed the reggae beat inside.

A bit self-consciously hip, it is hip nonetheless and has a splendid line of beers on tap including several from Mean Time Brewing (I had the Pilsner which was floral and astringent with a citric aftertaste).  The bartender was keen on this brewery from Greenwich and gave me a rundown of what to expect from the full range (first and only customer gets all the attention).  They also do food.

Oh, the glass size is 2/3 of a pint if you are pacing yourself (or have a quota to fulfill).

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[*kpw = kebab per week for 2013, as noted in an earlier post and the 10th entry for the 2013 Challenge]

Anyone who gives a glowing review to a kebab stand is not to be trusted (the internet is full of liars, it seems).  So all the hype about Bodrum being ‘the best’ and ‘not to be missed’ was just as valid as all that penis enlargement medicine (although this guy should do the adverts).  The chips were limp and cold and the döner chewy like a rubber eraser that had been stored in a block of salt.  On the other hand, the chilli sauce was awesome and the salad (which was apparently an extra charge) looked lovely.  Maybe it is better after 6 or 8 pints…that’s an experiment I can probably arrange.

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I could never get served in the Wig and Pen when it was called Copa but spotted the name change (back to the original, I hear) while out for some lunch…great, first new pub for me in Oxford in months.  Oxfordshire Ales 6 Nations Porter was among six on the pumps and I do like a porter, me.

It was sparsely populated but steady and the upstairs (great spiral case to get there) has pretty good views out to the Theatre and Bella Italia and the general chaos of George Street.  The music wasn’t fantastic, but the servers actually paid attention to me so out with the new and end with the old, I reckon.

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[*kpw = kebab per week for 2013, as noted in an earlier post and the 6th entry for the 2013 Challenge]

Döner meat and chips doesn’t get any better than this, or if it does then the proprietors have probably missed the point.  I have had this treat so often that on approaching Branos I have to wave off the staff in the event I want something different.  The chilli sauce is thick, garlic rich, and perfect.  The salad, when you get it, is always a meal on its own (the pickled cabbage an especially good treat).  Right next door to the Falafel House, I am impressed that they maintain peace and harmony but they each have their own specialities.

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I still plan to do the weekly kebab for the 2013 Challenge, but I was famished on my way home (last meal was a bowl of cereal at 4:30 in the morning) and stopped by the Falafel House and, having never tried their kebabs before (the place next door is my favourite in Oxford) decided to give it a go.

While hot, the meat stayed tender and moist and the chilli sauce was rich with coriander leaf and was almost a hot salsa.  The vinegar on the chips was especially sharp and tangy, and the onions, cabbage, lettuce, and tomatoes had flecks of coriander in it as well.

The temperature out has been hovering just below freezing and the meat soon cooled, but here was another nice surprise: instead of fat congealing on the döner, it just went sort of dry and chewy like some wonderfully spiced and still fairly tender jerky.  Falafel House is now on my shortlist of Best Kebabs in Oxford.

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The newest pub on Cowley Road in Oxford, The Cowley Retreat, makes the claim it is the oldest pub on Cowley Road in Oxford but I had a run scheduled and any excuse for a new or old pub to visit is a good excuse…you might reasonably think.  It used to be the Hobgoblin (visit chronicled here) and might actually have been a pub back into the mists of time but the only words I could pry out of the bartender came when I asked when it changed names were, I think (he mumbled), something about the end of the year.  Before I could follow up, he spun on his heels and went to the back of the building to turn up the hip hop so that no one could have a conversation.  This was really not a problem as the place was empty save the two of us.

The decor is new, with a fresh coat of paint and the better end of Ikea’s pub trade line of furnishings.  There were a few decorations scattered around to make it seem posher than it actually probably is, like the suit brushes on the barometer/weather station next to the chalkboard advertising “Tai Me Up” shooters.  Too posh for me.

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So, four years now (or, rather, next week it will be…here’s the annual reports for years Three, Two, and One for historical perspective).

We just received our new visas valid until 2016 but plan to take the next step toward citizenship in a year, Indefinite Leave to Remain…sort of the British Green Card.  There is an exam, first, but in general it is all downhill from here.

The view from Western Street near the new house…also all downhill

Additionally, we are in the process of moving house (which is why I rushed the annual report a week forward) from just north of the Oasis over to Old Town to a house situated close walks to either the Beehive or the Castle or the Globe (recently reopened!)—three locals instead of one and all three of high quality—and dozens of others a short walk. The new house has three bedrooms each larger than its counterpart in the old house, the two receptions are larger and made into more of an open-plan configuration, the bath is larger and has a tub (not just a shower), and there is a finished basement; on the down side, the kitchen is a little narrower and more primitive as is the small garden but everything we do and everywhere we normally go in Swindon (save for the butcher) is so close.

The only races I did this past year were the London Marathon (5 pubs plus a can of Carling on the last mile) and the Beerathon (5 miles with a pint and a hefty food item between each) and the mileage run for the year suffered from this lack of focus—1950 give or take about 25 (most estimates pretty good using gmap-pedometer), while the last several years (except for the year of the wreck) were in the 2200-2500 range.

On the runs, I visited  255 new pubs with a stunning 67 new ones (steep part of the graph) in September when I took two weeks off work and ran at least 10 miles per day in new territory each day. The 1000th wasn’t as big a thrill as I thought it would be, but I saw some really nice places and met some really fine folk. The September holiday found me visiting Gloucester, South Wales, Slough (exotic, I know) and Exeter along with some nearer-to-Swindon trips. The 100 Yellow Beer Challenge was responsible for a lot of second visits to pubs I might not otherwise have gone to after an initial stop and many of these seemed better the second time around. Oh, and my Workingman’s Club appears to have failed or at least hasn’t been open the last several times I’ve popped by (I have a grand one scoped out for the new neighbourhood, though).

Best pubs in Year Four (reverse order by First Visit write-up):
The Southgate Inn, Devizes
Byron’s, Swindon
The Hop Inn, Swindon
Dicey Reilly’s, Teignmouth
The Brass Monkey, Teignmouth
One Eyed Jack’s, Gloucester
Ye Olde Red Lion, Tredegar
The Rose of Denmark, Woolwich
The Volunteer Rifleman’s Arms
The Green Dragon, Marlborough
The British Lion, Devizes
The Blue Boar, Alsbourne (for the Dr. Who connections)

Favourite write-ups:
Postboxes
British Citizenship Exam Prep
Risk Assessment-Bins
Oxford Tourists
Assize Court, Bristol

Cock Flavour
Paul Simon in Hyde Park
Edie’s Lawn
The hunt
The Bremen Musicians (German children’s story)
Sex Tourism in Wiltshire
Modern Algebra for Omid
Burns’ Day Lunch

There are others search for ‘made me laugh.’  The blog may or may not have made some of the over 100,000 visitors laugh, but the damn fools keep checking in (that’s you, that is).

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The previous post was better, but I wanted to showcase the screensavers pieced together by Squeezin’ (with my gratitude for these).  The pics, in order, are

Venue	Where	beer #
The Princess Hotel (done around 5 am New Year’s Day)	Swindon	1
The Bank House	Cheltenham	2
At the New Year’s Races in Cheltenham (watching my nag drag in)	Cheltenham	3
Midlands Hotel	Cheltenham	4
The Queen’s Tap	Swindon	5
The Four Candles	Oxford	6
The Turf Tavern (at the sign commemorating Clinton failing to inhale there)	Oxford	7
The White Horse	Oxford	8
O’Neill’s	Oxford	9
Ellington’s	Swindon	10
The Red Lion	Oxford	11
The Gloucester Arms	Oxford	12
Eurobar	Oxford	13
The Volunteer	Faringdon	14
The Red Lion	Faringdon	15
The Bell	Faringdon	16
The Lamb and Flag	Oxford	17
The Bird and Baby	Oxford	18
Far  The Madding Crowd	Oxford	19
Southbrook Inn	Swindon	20
The White Hart	Wolvercote, Oxfordshire	21
The Red Lion	Wolvercote, Oxfordshire	22
The Plough	Oxford	23
The Gardener’s Arms	Oxford	24
The Rose and Crown	Oxford	25
TP’s	Swindon	26
The De’s Cut	Oxford	27
The King and Queen	Longcot, Oxfordshire	28
The Woodman Inn	Fernham, Oxfordshire	29
The Eagle	Little Cocks Swell, Oxfordshire	30
The Wheatsheaf	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	31
Faringdon Folly	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	32
Salisbury Cathedral	Salisbury	33
The King’s Arms	Salisbury	34
The Old Castle Pub	Salisbury	35
The keep at Old Sarum	Salisbury	36
Wheatsheaf	Lower Woodford, Wiltshire	37
Bridge Inn	Upper Woodford, Wiltshire	38
Black Horse	Great Durnford, Wiltshire	39
Wilsford Cum Lake sign (heh, heh)	Wiltshire	40
Stonehenge (really a great disappointment)	Wiltshire	41
King’s Arms	Amesbury, Wiltshire	42
George Hotel	Amesbury, Wiltshire	43
New Inn	Amesbury, Wiltshire	44
The Greyhound	Amesbury, Wiltshire	45
Royal Oak	Oxford	46
The Red Lion	Marston, Oxfordshire	47
The Angel and Greyhound	Oxford	48
The University Club	Oxford	49
The GW Hotel	Swindon	50
Jude the Obscure	Oxford	51
The Victoria	Oxford	52
The Rickety Press	Oxford	53
Wahoo Sport Bar	Oxford	54
The Oxford Retreat	Oxford	55
The Grapes	Oxford	56
The Rolleston	Swindon	57
The Baker’s Arms	Swindon	58
The Dolphin	Swindon	59
Marsh Farm Hotel	Royal Wootton Bassett	60
The Cross Keys	Royal Wootton Bassett	61
The Old School	Oxford	62
The King’s Arms	Oxford	63
The Swan and Castle	Oxford	64
The Victoria Arms	Marston, Oxfordshire	65
The Black Swan	Abingdon, Oxfordshire	66
The Blue Boar	Abingdon, Oxfordshire	67
The Bowyer Arms	Radley, Oxfordshire	68
Zen Bar	Swindon	69
Sir Daniel Arms	Swindon	70
White Hart	Lyneham, Wiltshire	71
Sodom	Wiltshire	72
The Angel	Royal Wootton Bassett, Wiltshire	73
Cape of Good Hope	Oxford	74
Rudi’s	Swindon	75
Burn’s Day Lunch (Haggis, Neeps, Tatties, Whisky, and 2 beers)	Oxford	76
Swindon Wildcats 3, Sheffield Steeldogs 4 (SO)	Swindon	77
The Longwall	Oxford	78
The Royal George	Purton, Wiltshire	79
Riff’s Bar	Greatfield, Wiltshire	80
Magic Roundabout	Swindon	81
The Three Tuns	Wroughton	82
The Havana	Swindon	83
The Lydiard	Swindon	84
The Savoy	Swindon	85
The Brewer’s Arms	Cirencester	86
The White Horse	Woolstone	87
The College Farm	Watchfield	88
The Horse and Jockey	Ashton Keynes, Gloucestershire	89
The Vale Hotel	Cricklade	90
Goldfinger Tavern	Highworth, Wiltshire	91
The Red Lion	Northmoor, Oxfordshire	92
The Bell Inn	Standlake, Oxfordshire	93
The Maybush	Newbridge, Oxfordshire	94
The Beehive (this is about 100 yards from the house we are moving to)	Swindon	95
Baker Street	Swindon	96
Steam Railway Company Pub	Swindon	97
The Pig on the Hill	Swindon	98
Long’s Bar	Swindon	99
near Parliament, with a Cuban cigar and a bunch of dirty looks (and after 5 pub stops)	London Marathon	100
The Bear	Oxford	101
The Old Tom	Oxford	102
The Crown	Oxford	103
The Beehive	Carterton, Oxfordshire	104
The Crown Inn	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	105
Romany Inn	Bampton, Oxfordshire	106
Talbot Hotel	Bampton, Oxfordshire	107
The George Inn	Sandy Lane, Wiltshire	108
The White Hart	Calne, Wiltshire	109
The now defunct King George	Calne, Wiltshire	110
Barrington Arms	Shrivenham, Oxfordshire	111
Groves Company Inn	Swindon	112
Revolution	Swindon	113
The Plough	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	114
The George and Dragon	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	115
The Fish	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	116
Great Western Railway Staff Association	Didcot, Oxfordshire	117
The Prince of Wales	Didcot, Oxfordshire	118
Tap and Barrel (good read goes along with this pic)	Swindon	119
Old Town Festival	Swindon Town Gardens	120
Cock Inn	Combe, Oxfordshire	121
Three Horseshoes	Long Hanborough, Oxfordshire	122
Swindon Pride 2012	Swindon (duh)	123
Wernham Hogg’s	Slough, Berkshire	124
The Myrtle Grove	Risca, Gwent, Wales	125
The Sirhowy	Blackwood, Gwent, Wales	126
Railway Tavern	Sirhowy, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	127
The Castle	Bryn Serth, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	128
The Coach and Horses	Ashvale, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	129
Ye Olde Red Lion Hotel	Tredegar, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	130
The Tumble Inn	Pontypridd, Wales	131
The Maltster’s Arms	Pontypridd, Wales	132
Wyvern Theatre	Swindon	133
Byron’s Bar	Swindon	134
The Bear Hotel	Wantage, Oxfordshire	135
Source ot the River Thames	Kemble, Gloucestershire	136
Carpenter’s Arms	Lacock, Wiltshire	137
Mill House	Chippenham, Wiltshire	138
Sunny’s Pool Bar	Swindon	139
The Royal Oak	Marlborough, Wiltshire	140
The Lamb Inn	Marlborough, Wiltshire	141
The Crown	Marlborough, Wiltshire	142
IMS/TOF Mass Spectrometer	Oxford University	143
New Year’s Eve on Ferndale Road	Swindon	144

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Update 2012-12-15:  

Added two photos to this entry and changed posting date to now.  The new ones are one for George V (GR without a numeral) and a much more ornate Victoria postbox, both in my neighbourhood.  Hoping to ‘stumble upon’ an Edward VIII, rare due to short tenure before abdication, but if needs must I have a list of a number of these.

Until a few weeks ago I had never paid attention to postboxes and assumed that all were cast with the E2R emblem representing the queen, Elizabeth II Regina.  It is also on police and military emblems and notary marks.  Looking out the window while stuck at a traffic signal I spotted one with GR on the side (actually G6R, for George VI Rex).  In the next week I found one for Victoria Regina and another for Edward VII Rex a few dozen meters from the lab:

Victoria’s postbox at corner of Park and South Parks Roads, Oxford

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More ornate lettering on this Victoria box sited on Beatrice Street, Swindon

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Edward VII’s postbox on Mansfield Road, Oxford

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George V postboxes don’t have a numeral. This one is on Ferndale Road, Swindon

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George VI’s postbox in Notton, Wiltshire

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When the Gloucester Arms closed for refurbishment a few weeks ago it was long overdue a tidy: more than a lick of paint was needed and the floors were dry and grey although obviously still in good shape.  It was going to be a lot of work but nothing structural was necessary.

On my way into work I noticed to my horror that the pub sign had been replaced with one for The White Rabbit.  Yikes.  The Gloc was the only proper dive close to the bus station and the atmosphere was always sublime.  There were always five ales on the pumps (two of which have now been capped) and sometimes there would be gravity fed casks on offer.  The Gloc staff always looked like roadies or groupies for Spinal Tap and the customers were a surreal mishmash of Oxford NATIVES.

So, on this visit I expected massive changes and was relieved to find the freshly painted (with semigloss, a wise choice) house still serving weirdos (mea culpa).  The floors look great–I would have sanded and stained these myself for the past management, so much potential they held and now reveal.  The ales are from White Horse, with Village Idiot and Bitter on tap, and the bartender was almost competent.  Nothing really drastically different.

The furnishings are even the same: I sat at the same undulating table that me and Matt Bush sat at on my first visit to assess the lab space in 2009, still rickety even with a coat of wax.

Funny conversation the bartender was involved in had him speaking proudly of his travels: “Oh, I’ve moved around a bit.  I’m from Woodstock, but moved to Dorchester for awhile.  NOW, I’m here.”  For perspective, Woodstock and Dorchester are about 10 and 15 miles away, respectively.

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Lilienthal Library

There’s not much you might consider remarkable about the September running streak, really, except that I managed to remain clothed in public the entire time (ie, only a streak in that there was an unbroken string).  I ran every day of September and (until I got the flu last week) I covered a minimum of 10 miles every day.  A semi-statistical breakdown of these follows, and there are a few photos that didn’t make it into other posts last month (maybe just a shot or two from Germany, who knows).  The total, 330 miles, is the most I’ve done in a month since my mid-30′s when, tripping and stoned almost continuously, I barely felt the effort (doing it piss drunk is quite a bit more difficult even before factoring in the extra 15 years or so of decrepitude).

Total: 330.2 miles
Swindon: 86.0 miles (10 runs)
other Wiltshire: 103.7 (8½ runs–crossed from Glocs)
Oxford: 40.0 (4 runs)
Gloucestershire: 18.4 (1½ runs–crossed to Wilts)
Devon: 21.5 (1 run)
Berkshire: 15.0 (1 run)
Wales: 23.3 (2 runs)
Germany: 22.3 (2 runs)

Had a trip to Germany for work toward the end of the month and with that and the change of seasons did both of my runs there in the pre-dawn darkness; a shame, really, as both areas (Hamburg near the airport and Borgfeld/Lilienthal near Bremen) looked very nice for this kind of excursion.  In Borgfeld, I stayed in a rental room across from this restaurant/microbrewery (the beers were fantastic):

…and the breakfast suited the post-workout refuel although within hours I was crippled with nausea, fever, a mid-range migraine, and a free-flowing waste-relief valve.  This continued the next several days, but once home I felt I could try for another — if shorter — run but only managed a mile before turning around and heading back to bed.  Yikes.

Big houses, safe streets, and loads of farm roads and wildlife preserves await you in Lilienthal and Borgfeld, if you go:

September 2012 was also the busiest month for pub visits (67  included the 1000th) since I landed in England, largely due to the unsupervised nature of my vacation (Jackie left me to my own devices for two weeks and, surprisingly, there were no legal or medical catastrophes).  I stopped including ‘dead pubs’ quite a few months ago unless they are of significant importance or beauty (and, for those, I will still follow the original set of rules); had this not been the case, I could easily have boosted the count by another 20-30.

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This post will obviously expand as time goes on (as do most American tourists), but basically is about the various types of tourists you see around the city (hence, the title).  I realise that I fall into most of these categories (including the ever-expanding American one).  One thing Oxford should learn, though, is that if we don’t fight the tourists over there we will have to fight them over here:

A Jude family at the Radcliffe Camera

The Judes–The most abundant of the tourists, they are also some of the most solitary (except that so many drag their parents along…although sometimes it is the parents that are most Judicious).  I call them Judes after Jude the Obscure, which if you haven’t read before arrival for a long stay you should buy a copy your first week here and pretend to read it.  They are wide-eyed and open jawed as they wander around the millennium-old and meter-thick walls separating them from the Colleges and they imagine themselves in some serial drama on PBS about their witty conversations and elegant lives inside these cloisters.

By my count, five Judes (one behind the middle girl) and two Jude-ish parents

It can melt your heart to see the looks of wonder and inspiration on the faces of some of the Jude-sih kids here on their first trips abroad, but you become hardened against it as they treat the day-to-day lives of the people who actually work here as though you are all props in their little academia-themed amusement park.  It would be so tempting to banish them to a life of poverty and toil in the Dorset wilderness, but they will probably return safely to their suburban lives and be the better for it (and, unfortunately, encourage their friends and acquaintances to come over on their next holiday). As a much older and reformed practitioner of Jude-ism, though, it can still give me a cheap thrill on the early morning walk to work through the mostly deserted streets…when the light is just right (and it so often is).

Snap-Happy tourists–Oxford is a giant tableau and no photograph you take here is going to convey any of the experience of being here.  The Snap-Happies needn’t worry about that because their bodies occupy space while in Oxford, but their minds fret that some part of it is going by undocumented.

If you have only a couple of hours here, put the camera away until you have at least done this walk (then feel free to pull it back out as you try to find an alternative path back to images that will go some distance toward capturing this trail–and get lost doing so, there’s lots to see):

From the train station walk up Hythe Bridge and George Street going from some of the most modern architecture toward, but not yet to, some of the most ancient.  There are some interesting pubs on George, but Gloucester Green, hidden behind some buildings and the bus station to your left holds a market square to load up on some snacks (Wednesday) or antique souvenirs (Thursday); exit by the cinema and cross George onto New Inn Hall then take the first left on St Michael passing the Oxford Union and a homeless shelter (scratch the ears on one of the hippies’ dogs).  Either cross Cornmarket (hellish shopping) and do Ship Street past Jesus College or turn right on Cornmarket then left on Market to get to the Covered Market where you can get a real meal, or some kippers, or anything foodie you might desire if you look around long enough.  Back out at the end of Market Street, follow Brasenose Lane straight ahead to the Radcliffe Camera and the Bodleian (wander the courtyard of the Bod but head back past the Radcliffe to High Street and turn left).  A hundred meters or so on the left you’ll find Queen’s Lane (still no phots…you are taking in some of the air); this zigzags through some pretty bits and the Bridge of Sighs eventually looms (and you’d miss it if you were snapping everything else that catches your eye).  Take the little alleyway on the right past the Turf Tavern (there are less-touristy places to stop, but they have a spectacular selection of beer), and you will pass the medieval walls of the city and come out a little east of the King’s Arms.  Head west toward it and the Sheldonian and more of the Bodleian will appear along with the White Horse (which would be my recommendation for a stop to decide what was the best to double back and shoot–mind there are fantastic walks like this all over, for instance just ask the bartender how to get to the Chequers and the Bear and get lost over there for a while, too.

It-Was-On-The-List tourists–these are sort of similar to but not necessarily the same as the Snap-Happies.  Either part of a tour group or looking for a guided tour or following the edicts of Frommer/Fodor/RickSteves religiously (which is to say, without critical thinking) their sense of duty supersedes their enjoyment of the holiday; ironically, by tomorrow at least one of them will have printed out that walking tour I just described and will follow it step-by-step, missing the point completely.  These are the most depressing sorts to encounter.

Literary (and Film and Television) tourists–I like these guys the most although, like myself, they can be fairly polemical about their touristy aims.  These are the ones that, for the C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkein fans, stop in the Bird and Baby before heading toward the cemeteries just south of Kidlington or over in the Headington Quarries to see the stones covering the remains of their Precious.  I’ve already mentioned the Inspector Morse fans, and other film and telly crews show up around town continuously.  In fact, there’s a pub (The Plough) that Jerome K. Jerome featured in Three Men In A Boat out in Clifton Hampden near Culham that is just a mid-length run from the office I really should try to get to soon….

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The typical Inspector Morse fan you run into in Oxford is a middle-age woman from the States visiting here outside the high season for tourists and who has a grounding both in the Morse books and the television series (which is imported for regular airings on Public Broadcasting back in the US although I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an episode myself).  I’ve shot a lot of photos for these women with the bartenders (using their cameras) while they pose in front of some Morse or Lewis memorabilia.  The bar in the Randolph, a Grand Hotel worthy of the name, is named after Morse in honour of how frequently it has featured in these works.

None of that has anything to do with why I wanted to visit this on the pub journey nor why I have waited so long for a beverage and quiet contemplation in this magnificent house.  Jackie has been wanting to come here for the atmosphere as well, and we have never both been appropriately dressed for the visit when we both happen to be in the city (my job in the labs dictates ratty clothing, usually, and my hobby is running…mea culpa).

So, on a day when I’m taking a break from running and had a meeting that kept me out of harsh chemicals and mechanical oils I opted to pop in on the way home to read a newspaper, dent the leather upholstery, and generally enjoy a civilised pint.  However, if you go for a beverage keep in mind  the pint will set you back £4.95 (and the spirits start at £10.40 a shot, mixers extra).

Oh, this means that The Morse Bar is no longer eligible to be the 1000th pub.  I’ll make the appropriate change to that post shortly.

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Every year in September, a bunch of carnival rides are parked in Oxford’s St. Giles Street for two days and every year we get the same security warning from our University Crime Reduction Manager (whom I imagine looks like the picture…he certainly sounds like it).  The best bits for my money are the warning to be wary of any “tailgater checking out your premises” (which I hashtag #not_a_euphemism, and as I’m no longer any spring chicken, would feel a bit flattered by, I should imagine), and the Dickensian phraseology like “ne’er-do-wells” and “ill-gotten gains.”  These rapscallions and blaggards know no bounds of civility!  An excerpt:

“During the fair days, please brief staff to be on the look out for the casual walk in thief, or tailgater checking out your premises. Those further away should also not be complacent; the ne’er-do-wells are known to roam far and wide in their search for ill-gotten gains…..

For those of you visiting the fair, do enjoy yourselves….”

If you dare.

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Affable but quite simple and a bit too expensive, not as hygienic as you might expect, and although not worthy of the esteem received you find it hard to wish it harm: yes, I write of the Duke of Cambridge but, no, not that one. Rather, the one supported by funds extracted voluntarily from the public and that sits conveniently near to work over on Little Clarendon Street in Oxford.

My first visit was early in 2010 before the Rules had been amended to include liquor; the group had just transferred from University of Cambridge and this was a joint outing with another research group.  The sign, at that time, consisted of some earlier wealthy git with a countenance that oozed disdain and arrogance.  Our Willy is a much friendlier face, but count your change and don’t expect full or undiluted measures.

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I’ve been reading Joyce lately.  The route everyone else took, and should have taken, is at this link: http://bit.ly/MZW35I

There should be a link to the route the so-called ‘Hashers’ followed on the Oxford HHH site

Gispert’s Birthday, OH3 Trail #701, The ‘Odyssey’ Version

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It was a typical hash: Dippy and I were lost on trail within the first 200 meters out of the start.  Atypically, we had a woman with us, our ingénue Stiff Upper Clit.  Not wanting to scare off yet another one, I opted to start the Not-Trail drinking with HALF pints at the Black Swan a move that exposed us to ridicule from the regulars who, I dare say, probably have experience exposing themselves to strangers as well.  S.U.C. syphoned down her ice-cold IPA and declared, ‘You two drink like little girls,” then sped off toward the Fir Tree without us.

Some comment had just been made about Dippy’s backyard now being open

Arriving, winded, sometime after her she had already decided the beer she would demolish next.  Dippy, on the other hand, could not focus on the beer list due either to his obsession with the Lore of the Pickled Egg or to the lack of oxygen (at birth, not on the inter-pub dash).  Pints in, at last we retired to a table full of builders from Leeds; one told us of a colleague of theirs that shoved an 8 inch nail through his own foot “because we dared him,” but we were unable to recruit them to bring along this natural hash talent.  We left toward the Rusty Bicycle…

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…alas, Chester Street emerged and as it was a downhill slope to the Chester Arms we were compelled to follow Nature’s Lines of Potential.  Unfortunately, potential energy was not converted to chemical energy in the form of ale as the house was closed.  Drat.  Unable to count on the Isis or our senses of direction to get us there we plodded on to the Bicycle while still vainly seeking signs of trail.

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We found none but a helpful chap chain-smoking in front of the Glad He Ate Her Spore Anti-Social Club (that’s what my notes say, anyway) stopped us before we could enter this Members Only venue possibly to some foul end.  ”If you’re runners, you shouldn’t be drinking,” this portrait of health and well-being pointed out.

mmmmmm…beer (James Street Tavern)

Dejection lasted the time it took for us to reach the Magdalene where the tempo of service gave us time to reflect on where we might eventually find trail once more; in fact, the service was so swift that I only had time to jot down most of the notes here thus far and to recite pi to 4000 decimal places…it has improved a lot since my last visit.  And, the sausage rolls are to die for.  Watching Stiffy slide one of these past her lips is thirsty work indeed, but we still had to find trail.

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Fortunately for us, the trail we could not find (nor were even sure existed, any longer) did not deter us from finally reaching the Rusty Bicycle for some overdue refreshment.  However, we  encountered the grumpiest foreigner in the Isles at the table that we piled onto.  Unwilling to share his paper, he seemed unusually tense as Dippy leaned precariously over to read the celebrity gossip.  I made a list of probably future hash names from the headlines (the Sun is good for that) then went over to surreptitiously eavesdrop on the stories of chainsaw wielding amazons the elves at the other end of the table were giggling about.  It seemed too much for our level headed muse and upon draining our vessels (grow up, you know what that means) we loped off toward the most probable location of the On-Inn.

Who left this bag full of condoms, must belong to Pink Pussy.

The bureaucratic duties of the circle were at an end and it seemed almost as if the assembled pack had actually run a trail but, battle-scarred as we were, we heard none of the adventures one might normally expect from one of Warm and Fluffy’s endeavours; nor, indeed, did we have time to relate how much we enjoyed the trail or even to make a proper start on the On-Inn Ale we were handed before–injustice and oppression–we and a No Name (did I mention I made a list?) were hauled before the tribunal and forced to drink ceremonially for, what, I cannot be certain.

Circle is a solemn occasion