I have come to Wolvercote Cemetery to visit the grave of one of my favourite writers from my college days--JRR Tolkien, who spent much of his life in Oxford. I remember my first English Literature class at Acadia, when my professor Robert Cockburn announced to us that our first book was, in fact, four: Tolkien's The Hobbit and his trilogy, Lord of the Rings. I fondly recall the story of Bilbo Baggins and his dozen fortune-seeking dwarves who go off to reclaim the stolen treasure from the dragon Smaug. And Gandalf is one of my favourite fantasy characters, especially as he encourages and guides Frodo Baggins in his quest to find and destroy the One Ring.
I follow the markers in the verge, which lead directly the cemetery's most illustrious "resident."
Tolkien died in September 1973 and is buried with his wife, Edith. Visitors, likely from Middle-earth themselves, have left numerous small tokens, including a small lantern, a white stuffed toy, an elf or two, pine cones and other items.
(To the uninitiated, "Luthien" and "Beren" are fictional Middle-earth characters, chosen by Edith to represent the couple on their cemetery monument.) Nearby I see what I first thought was an odd memorial; but then I realised it was just a rack upon which are hung watering cans so visitors can water plants left on family graves.
I leave the cemetery, walk down the Godstow Road, past cattle grazing on the Wolvercote Common--included here to please all my Gaspereau friends--past the Oxford Canal and The Trout Inn.
Once on the Thames Pathway and past Godstow Nunnery and the Lock, I am alongside the Isis again--the Thames is called The Isis through Oxford--and I hear a familiar chant: "Stroke. Stroke. Stroke." Whizzing by are half a dozen shells (or fine boats), followed by their coaches with megaphones. They are from one of the numerous college rowing teams that comprise Oxford University Women's Boat Club.
There is only one coxless pair, sculling, and several coxed fours.
I take the road from the Pathway to Binsey Village. Historians will explain that in ancient times this was probably a large, well populated area, but there is little left and only two dozen residents. The well known pub is called The Perch, its thatched roof carrying a wooden fish. It has a mooring on the nearby river to serve water-borne patrons.
It is only 10:30 a.m. so the pub is not open, although I stand and listen to some local musicians practising their repertoire.
In more modern times, the well is found in Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, in the Mad Hatter Scene, where it is known as the Treacle Well. Carroll was a friend of the Vicar of the time, A. J. Prout, who had the well "brought back into use." The three sisters in the scene are presumed to be the Liddell girls.
In the churchyard are buried many members of the Prickett family, one of whom was Alice Liddell's governess.
I leave the cemetery, walk down the Godstow Road, past cattle grazing on the Wolvercote Common--included here to please all my Gaspereau friends--past the Oxford Canal and The Trout Inn.
Once on the Thames Pathway and past Godstow Nunnery and the Lock, I am alongside the Isis again--the Thames is called The Isis through Oxford--and I hear a familiar chant: "Stroke. Stroke. Stroke." Whizzing by are half a dozen shells (or fine boats), followed by their coaches with megaphones. They are from one of the numerous college rowing teams that comprise Oxford University Women's Boat Club.Watching the rowers pass swiftly past me brings memories of my father, Tony, who was a championship rower back in the 1930s with the Northwest Arm Rowing Club in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. (I have a number of his medals and trophies from rowing regattas in the family trophy cabinet at home.) "Pop" used to try to teach us how to row by facing one another holding a broomstick, pushing our legs out long and hard. Of course, we didn't have sliding seats like these racing shells, but it was obvious that the legs play a major role in rowing competitively and I have never forgotten my father's advice to keep my legs strong--to no avail.
The largest shell is this coxed eight. (The woman in the stern is the coxswain, presuming the term is genderless.)
The largest shell is this coxed eight. (The woman in the stern is the coxswain, presuming the term is genderless.)
There is only one coxless pair, sculling, and several coxed fours.
I take the road from the Pathway to Binsey Village. Historians will explain that in ancient times this was probably a large, well populated area, but there is little left and only two dozen residents. The well known pub is called The Perch, its thatched roof carrying a wooden fish. It has a mooring on the nearby river to serve water-borne patrons.
It is only 10:30 a.m. so the pub is not open, although I stand and listen to some local musicians practising their repertoire.I am here to see St Margaret's Church, a short distance from what's left of the village, cramped by a private working farm on all sides. The current Norman church dates from the 12th century on the site of an earlier Saxon one. A huge fundraising campaign is underway to save the church, in urgent need of repairs. Even the bells have been removed for repair.
The Binsey Church of St Margaret focuses on the legend of the Saint Frideswide, the patron saint of Oxford. An on-line account reports that at one time the following text was hung on the door of the Church.
"When the most Reverend Princess Ffrediswyde, Abbess of Oxford, disdaining the attention of the enamoured prince of Mercia, Algar, had fled to Thornbury, or Binsey, she was pursued there by the Prince, who had the temerity to attempt to take hold of her hand and was forthwith smitten blind by a great clap of lightning which flashed forth from a justly wrathful Heaven. A sentiment of sorrow then pierced the heart of the Maiden Princess when she saw her lover's plight and immediately there appeared before her St Margaret of Antioch with her little dragon and St Catherine of Alexandria with her wheel. Little St Margaret told the saint to strike her Abbatial staff on the ground which when it was done there gushed forth a fount of water. The Princess's Lady Maidens then lavered the eyes of luckless Algar with this healing tide and forthwith his sight was given back and seeing the error of his ways he stooped to the ground and kissed the hem of the Princess's robe thereafter returning to lead a better and a wise life."
The place where her staff struck the ground became St Margaret's Treacle Well and a destination for pilgrims seeking its curative powers. Even Henry VIII came here to pray for a son. In medieval times "treacle" meant "a healing fluid" and, according to the current brochure, "the restored cripples hung up their crutches within the church to testify of their cure."
The place where her staff struck the ground became St Margaret's Treacle Well and a destination for pilgrims seeking its curative powers. Even Henry VIII came here to pray for a son. In medieval times "treacle" meant "a healing fluid" and, according to the current brochure, "the restored cripples hung up their crutches within the church to testify of their cure."
In more modern times, the well is found in Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, in the Mad Hatter Scene, where it is known as the Treacle Well. Carroll was a friend of the Vicar of the time, A. J. Prout, who had the well "brought back into use." The three sisters in the scene are presumed to be the Liddell girls.`Tell us a story!' said the March Hare.
`Yes, please do!' pleaded Alice.
`And be quick about it,' added the Hatter, `or you'll be asleep again before it's done.'
`Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began in a great hurry; `and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--'
`What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.
`They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two. `They couldn't have done that, you know,' Alice gently remarked; `they'd have been ill.'
`So they were,' said the Dormouse; `VERY ill.'
Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: `But why did they live at the bottom of a well?' . . .
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.'
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.'
`There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.'
`No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be ONE.'
`One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--'
`What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. `Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. . . .
Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?' `You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?'
`But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark.
`Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.'
This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it.
In the churchyard are buried many members of the Prickett family, one of whom was Alice Liddell's governess.
I might have a game leg and suffer from back pain, but I decide to pass on sipping the legendary curative waters of St Margaret's Treacle Well: the green slime, the spiderweb and nearby buried corpses rather dampen my enthusiasm.
It is time to leave and it has become a very hot day--about 25 degrees--and I am getting burned. So I stroll along the river into Oxford, with time on my hands to see some other Oxford places, of which I shall write next.
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