The flora of Fritwell, the oh-dang of Oxford

Ah, the oldest academic institution in the *English-speaking* world. In Oxford, I walked along the 3 miles, yeah, 3 miles of books in Blackwell's Books. I saw the colleges, took pictures of the tops of pretty buildings. But you've seen that before. I prefer this accurate portrait of the town:


I loved knowing that even Rhodes Scholars honk on rust.


And can you guess which language I speak?


Did you know that J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were chums who drank ale together every Tuesday, discussing their latest writings?


I sat and discussed my next meal (fish and chips and tea) where they sat in the Eagle and Child.

I met up with the lovely Linda, my grandpa's cousin (we decided the name for us should be grand-cousins) and spent the night and Sunday in the village of Fritwell.



Fritwell is the kind of place with houses built in the 1500s.


Where you wish you wrote, spoke, ate, drank, poetry. So we tried, at breakfast.


Can I be a crumpet, soaking up the honey and butter of morning? Or a blackberry, between teeth and lips, ten seconds of tart explosions?


Fritwell's villagers opened their backyard gates for the yearly garden walk. The British heap flowers upon flowers upon pink, blue and red flowers.



Their topiaries just need a little icing and sprinkles, although the owner of this Manor may have had more regal ideas in mind.


Foxgloves guarded poppies, protecting tissue paper petals from eager sun.


These babies were the most welcoming of all the guests, as they leaped, dream-style, baaaaing for our cuddles.


Such a trying day needs a spot of tea and sponge cake.



So that we could trek on, and fall down the rabbit hole. (Did you know that Lewis Carroll was inspired by scenes around here and wrote Alice in Wonderland in Oxford?)


And I peered through the day, the trees, the time to breathe in the green and the calm and the quiet respect of village life.