I like walking through history. Or running though it. And especially literary history. Last week had me in Risinghurst, just north of Oxford, walking through the woods as a heavy snow fell all around us. But it wasn't Robert Frost's world, it was C.S. Lewis'. His house lay at the bottom of the hill, and as we walked up it were the pools leading to the other worlds of The Magician's Nephew. Then this morning I went for a twelve mile run through Buckland, Tolkien fans anyone?, past Stanway Manor, where J.M. Barrie resided after creating Peter Pan. And to add to its allure, the site of an adaptation of a Jane Austen work. Truth though, the whole run might as well have been through a Jane Austen novel. From Childswickham, near Aston Somerville, past Buckland, Laverton, Stanton and Stanway, turning back just shy of Snowshill Manor, and returning through Broadway. Not a sign though of Mr. Darcy. Though he no doubt would have snobbed me. Unconnected as I am. Back again now in Oxford, where the city itself breathes history.
A pint at the Eagle and Child anyone?
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