Sentimental: and I don’t care.

I don’t know when I can get this posted but whenever I do, this is what it is.

Tonight was the last night at Oxford. I say that, but in my heart I hope that it isn’t the last night, but only the last night this year. I have had a great time, and I have learned a lot, and most important of all this has been a life changing experience.

We had our last banquet in the great Hall; again think of the last banquet in the Harry Potter movies. That pretty much was what it was like. Food, wine and service that would rival any upscale restaurant. All of us hated saying goodbye and it got quite weepy. It was the kind of “my uncle has a barn so let’s get together and do summer stock” type of a thing. None of us wanted to leave. If possible all of us would have stayed and just kept working. There is something that is contagious about being with people that share the same interest and loves that you do.

In all of my classes I would guess that at least 75% say that they are planning to return next year. I know that won’t happen, all of us were carried away with the emotion of the moment. But, there are worst things that can happen to you in your life.

Now the truth is that this summer experience is set up so that we can’t fail. It would be disingenuous for me to play like I was now an Oxford graduate. Of course, not. But, I would be lying to you if I didn’t say that somehow I feel that I now have some idea of what that would be like. And, I have to say that I would have loved it and believe that I could have done it and would have been good at it.

Both the Shakespeare and the Creative Writing classes opened up possibilities that I have had closed in my heart and mind for years. I have already mentioned the Pilgrimage class and what I think that meant to me. The point here is that the last three week excided all expectations. It was more than I, or anybody else, who was new to this program, could have believed possible, but it was there and it worked. And, best of all, I took advantage of it.

The last night with the writer’s group was an experience that will live with me for a long time. The writers were a rowdy bunch; I shouldn’t have to mention that as it goes with the mythology. Nigel, a classmate from New Zealand, suggested something that marked us different from the other groups. He had found small teddy bears that had British flags attached to their tummies. Each of us wore these little bears pined to our lapel or dresses, which ever seemed appropriate. With the writer’s group you can never be sure.

As the class subtitle was “The Art of Telling Lies” each of us were tasked with coming up with different reasons why we were wearing the bears. So we had 10 different, and I have to say for the most part believable, stories as to the origin of the tradition for wearing Bears to banquets. As the rest of the students and tutors caught on to what we were doing we had several people rotating through trying to collect all the stories and then trying to decide which was the correct one.

Of course, the true story is that Nigel is a clever bloke and the writers are a rowdy bunch. I’m not sure you could take any of us home to meet your parents.

The Writer’s group had their last meeting at the Turf Tavern after the banquet and it was fun and it was sad. But, we also had a last shared experience that you probably won’t believe. I’ve probably made too much of our training as liars, none-the-less the following is true.

As we were walking back to the college from the Turf we were cutting through a small street by the Bodleian Library. (I know that I’m going to screw up the spelling of your name sorry, my friend, but I have already packed the class contact list. I promise to fix this later.) Rabia, a classmate from Dubai, stopped and said, “Do you smell that? Can you smell it? It’s the smell of books.” It was and we could. We were passing between the main building and one of the storage facilities which are connected by tunnels. This underground is used for storage of books and also for transporting books from one place to the other.

It was late at night on an Oxford street and you could smell the leather from the old volumes that were housed in the storage beneath us. It wasn’t the faint smell; it was a strong smell of old leather. Here we are, the Writer’s Group, having our last night together, walking home and passing one of the world’s oldest and best libraries and we could smell the books. Sometimes truth is stranger than the lies. Sort makes you wonder if a person should get out of fiction and start thinking about biographies.

I am sure that in the next few months you will get tired of hearing about the time I was in Oxford, but get use to it because I feel that it will inform the next phase of my life. I would think that for a while there would be snapshots of various memories of the last three weeks.

That said, I will try to push ahead. Tomorrow I will be up at 5:00 am to catch my train to the Manchester airport so I can catch my plane to the Isle of Man. I am looking forward to seeing Peggy and just what she has done with her show on the Isle.

The Isle is also known for its great walks, I have my camera and I’ll post what I can when I can.

From there I go to Belgium, but here is a dilemma that I will share with you. I couldn’t get a plane from Manchester to Heathrow that would fit into the time I need for the Brussels plane. So, I will rent a car and drive from Manchester to London and try to make the plane. Talk about scary. Think of Kenn driving on the wrong side of the road, trying to catch a plane on just about the tightest scheduled that you could make up. If that doesn’t give you religion then nothing will.