Day two of the tour and there's time to kill in Oxford before we drive to Bristol. In an attempt to blend in with the natives I've bought a pretentious Moleskine notebook and taken refuge from the day's scorching heat under a tree in Christ Church meadow. It would probably be sensible to find a more secluded spot than I have - tourists pour down the wide pebble dashed path almost constantly, eager to gawp at the university's golden monuments to intellectualism or the cows in the field ahead of me - but the poser in me quite enjoys imagining I might be a source of fascination to passersby with my furrowed brow and look of intense concentration. Besides, it's not long before the repetitive crunch of footsteps on gravel becomes faintly reassuring- like the sound of rain on a pane of glass.
Oxford is at once exactly and not at all as I remembered it. The last time I was here I was 16 years old, considering whether to apply to the university. That was nearly ten years ago, and the experience left me dazed and in awe of the entire institution. Back then I saw it as the rest of the world sees it and the tourist imagines it to be: an idyllic English city for dauntingly impressive intellectuals, where for once the bicycle is better loved than the car and where inspiration pours from every brick of its historic buildings. At 16, I was overwhelmed, eventually opting to study instead at the grimy, predictable but efficient London School of Economics.
Last night I saw the side of Oxford I missed first time round and that's less well-documented in Hollywood films. The Kiss Bar, located in the centre of town near the station, is exactly the kind of meat-market club that can be found in any English municipality with a population of more than four figures. The desperate pursuit of sex supersedes all sophistication, and sitting alongside the dancefloor complaining with my companion that "we just can't enjoy this kind of thing," I envied those who evidently could. I wondered for a while why it's so common that those with claims to intelligence find it all but impossible to let loose on a dancefloor, but answers failed me, and so I just continued nodding my head in time to the repetitive beats, taking regular gulps from my strong but too sweet cocktail.
Today, in the glorious hot sun, I see again the more magical, mythological city I expected to find. Whilst the town centre is now predictably dominated by chain coffee shops and multinational department stores, not even the fluorescent glow of those all-too-familiar McDonald's arches can obliterate the power and romance of the architecture. The cobbled streets beg me to wonder: "what if?" What if I had made an application to Oxbridge? What if they had accepted me? What if instead of the heady hedonism of Central London I'd spent three years engrossed in study at the spiritual capital of academia?
Time on the hands helps the mind to wander, and it's an interesting thought-experiment for a while. But I suspect most of the "magic power" in those cobbled streets comes from the birthday I had two days earlier- an annual ceremony that always demands a little self-reflection.
So far, no regrets.
Bristol - 20:45
It's becoming obvious we were slightly naive in thinking that there'd be no problem arranging accommodation as and when we arrived at places. It doesn't help that courtesy of my bourgeois upbringing, I'd failed to realise that a passport is a fairly essential thing to have with you when trying to check into a hostel. Luckily we've found a £13 bed at the Rock and Bowl in the centre of Bristol tonight, but it's looking increasingly likely that the tents we brought with us will see some action before the week is out.
After last night's busking in a mostly deserted shopping centre, I'm encouraged that the Prom Bar has the look and feel of a serious music venue. Again I feel a little like a poser, sitting on the front terrace with a cigarette in one hand and scribbling in a notebook with the other, but I feel a little less disingenuous than I did in Oxford- here the book is more of a crutch to keep me out of attempting conversation with the local scenesters when I feel far too sober to attempt it.
From the little I saw of Bristol walking up to the venue from our hostel, it feels like a town that's likely seen better days. Then again, there aren't many many places in England - or the world - that could say things have gotten better in the past five years, and my judgement of it might be particularly harsh because of how greatly it suffers by comparison to Oxford.
Hopefully I'll have a chance to get a better feel of the place tomorrow.
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