Brain Food

My brain was full.

In seven days, DW and I had driven from London, England, to Stratford-upon-Avon, through the north of Wales, across Snowdonia, along the western shores, and to the southeast before crossing back into England, where we visited historical Bath and Stonehenge. We were now in Salisbury and we had to have our car back at the rental agency, in London, by mid-afternoon.

There were so many places still to discover on this magnificent island and we knew that someday, we'd have to return (excluding Heathrow Airport, it's coming up on 30 years since we've made that promise and have yet to see England or Wales again). We wanted to see one more historic place, and when we checked the maps to see what was within range and our window of time, and we decided to head to the birthplace of England's institute for higher education.

We drove to Oxford.

Now, I'm sorry to say that I had run out of film after stopping at Stonehenge. At least, I thought I had run out. In truth, I did have one unexposed roll of 35mm film, but at that point I hadn't realized that I had shot one roll twice. But I had allocated so many rolls of film for each day and hadn't counted on taking any photos on the day that we were heading back to London.

Our friend, Catheleen, was holding onto my extra rolls of film that were allocated for our next leg of our vacation—more on that to come. And sure, I could have stopped somewhere to buy another roll, but I was young, not the experienced photographer that I am today, and I was on a limited budget (and cheap).

All of that to say that my images of Oxford, for this post, are taken from Google Maps.

Photos via Google Maps.

Time really wasn't working in our favour. I made a couple of wrong turns on the roadways, and what should have taken no more than an hour and forty-five minutes took us more than two hours. By the time we reached Oxford's High Street, it was nearing lunchtime, and DW and I could only think of food (we were growing tired of Weetabix breakfasts). The roads in town were busy and my luck of finding a good parking space had run out. We settled for driving around the city, taking in what our eyes would allow us, and then find a place to stop for lunch as we were heading out of Oxford.

Photos via Google Maps.

The buildings in the heart of Oxford and at the university are larger than life and draw the eye to the gorgeous architecture. In a way, it was fortunate that traffic was busy: it allowed me to take my attention, briefly, away from the road. I remember driving past University Church of St. Mary the Virgin (that poor woman, being labelled a virgin her whole life!), Carfax Tower, and Tom Tower.

Tom Tower, photo via Google Maps.

There was so much more that we saw from the roads, but this visit was so short that it now remains as a fog in the cobwebs in my brain. Scanning the city with Google Maps street view, I could see a building and think, yeah, that's vaguely familiar, or yeah, I saw that.

But time was running out and our stomachs were grumbling, so as I negotiated our way out of Oxford, DW searched our guidebook for a place to eat.

"We haven't had fish and chips in England," DW said. "We can't leave England without fish and chips, served in newspaper."

"I've worked for newspapers," I reminded her. "Fish that's been blackened by ink doesn't appeal to me."

Nevertheless, she found a highly rated fish-and-chips takeaway, which was on the road we needed to take to get to the M40 motorway. I remember the proprietor, a plump man with thinning black hair and a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, with a stained white t-shirt and an apron that hung from his ample waist. He was interested in our Canadian-ness and wished us well as he wrapped our fish and sent us on our way.

I ate while I drove, and the grease from the fry began to soak through the newspaper and burn my hands. The fish was super-hot, the batter crisp and crumbling. DW and I shared a serving of fat, crisp chips (French fries, of course!), and I remember having to quickly pass her my fish as I shifted gears and negotiated traffic circles.

There was nothing left but to make our way to London, and we returned our Ford Fiesta within minutes of our deadline. I pointed out the scratches, explaining that it happened in Caernarfon, while we were parked at the castle, to which the attendant only grunted, as if to say he expected no less. Because our insurance covered for all damage, we didn't have to worry about it.

We lugged our gear across the city, this time without help from our friends, and we crashed for the evening in the SoHo youth hostel.

Our trip around the UK was at an end, but our vacation was only just half-over. The next day, our friends, Catheleen and Joel, would be joining us on our next leg, Paris.

Like our UK trip, this Paris leg has a few blurred memories and I'm not sure that I want to tell it just yet. So I'll end this travel adventure here, and perhaps I'll share the Paris trip closer to its 30-year anniversary mark, in May.

Until then, if you're interested in seeing Paris, you can always see the family trip that DW and I took, in 2014, with our kids. That year, we saw a lot of France.