Oxbridge Revisited
Similar to many English literature students, I always had the persistent feeling that I knew Oxford and Cambridge viscerally, way before I ever went there. These places were for us primarily the landscapes of the mind and only then, the actual locations of academic knowledge and tradition. It would be impossible to read almost any book on the syllabus without stumbling on this iconic setting. The lives led there were invariably glamorous, decadent, formative, while lifelong friendships formed there (both fictional and actual) were the cornerstones of legends, stellar careers, creative collaborations, and immortal achievements in arts, literature, politics…I always felt an immense nostalgia for the life I never had there, for an imaginary existence filled with serious study, architectural beauty, exposure to the best that the world has to offer, but also with silly traditions, and indulgences of Oxbridge, such as May Balls, strawberries, champagne and punting. That is why my first visit felt more like a revisiting of the places that I have seen countless times in my mind's eye.
After a short train ride from London Paddington station, during which you speed by charming Hobbitesque houses with miniature doors, and after numerous sightings of peaceful, ruminating cows and bucolic landscapes worthy of John Constable's brush, you arrive at Cambridge. Immediately, your nerves calm down, and all the yearnings, passions, and vibrations inside your body awakened by the abundant charms of London, suddenly quiet down. Not in a bad way, quite the opposite. With its air of a rural market town, ancient Cambridge, after even the shortest stint in the cosmopolitan anthill that is London, feels like a well-deserved spa holiday.
Cambridge is a small town, grown organically around its famous colleges, and closely tied to its academic fame. It is the third-oldest university in the world, surpassed only by the universities of Bologna and Oxford. The Cambridge University origins go back to 1209, when a group of scholars decided to move out of Oxford after a dispute and continue their intellectual pursuits elsewhere. Schism can occasionally be a good thing. Ever since, this university, and consequently the city of Cambridge too, have a reputation for critical thinking, innovation, creativity, and extreme academic excellence, particularly in natural sciences. The students who pride themselves on studying there are called Cantabrigians. To mention only a few illustrious alumni: Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton, Alan Turing, Stephen Hawking, Lord Byron, John Milton, Sylvia Plath, Vladimir Nabokov, Salman Rushdie, E. M. Forster, Robert Harris, Douglas Adams...That is why Cambridge, and its eternal rival Oxford, are sacred, almost pilgrimage places for all of us desperately keen on learning, books, the enigmas of the mind, science, and literature.
At first and every subsequent glance, Cambridge is a quiet, dreamy, and dignified village. It is very aware of its grand past. There are Gothic spires, elaborately decorated facades, green lawns on which you are forbidden to step unless you are a professor, and thirty-one college buildings that give you the hybrid vibe of a Harry Potter film and a haunted mansion at the same time. All is infused with history and solemnity. The village has that parochial feel of a place out of an old book, long out of print. Everything is dated, but in the best possible way, it's vintage, precious, antique, and desirable. Bright young things are present, and they swish by on their bicycles down the picturesque lanes, with obligatory straw baskets attached in front. They lug books, notebooks, their modest packed lunches, Thermos bottles, and niche magazines in them, I choose to believe. The provisions for a day of deep study and research. In reality, they are more likely to have all the usual paraphernalia of modernity, iPads, laptops, cell phones, and vapes inside their cloth totes, just like the rest of us. But I like to think they are of another time, and in pursuit of more momentous things.
They look confident and aware of their great privilege of being at Cambridge. You meet them elegantly dressed on their way to the dining halls, where they sup under the watchful eyes of the portraits of their famous predecessors. It would be an abomination to eat in shorts and flip-flops under Sir Isaac Newton, wouldn't it? They don't appear perturbed at all by the ubiquitous formal warnings attached to every fence in the town: You must not lean bicycles here! It seems that misplaced bicycles are the only problem the village has. City fathers forget that being twenty years old means believing you are immortal and no public ban will faze you. We all fondly remember these salad days.
Oh, to be young and to study there, carefree, with only exams as your duty, to be affluent, spoiled, and drunk on everything that this cerebral environment has to offer! G. B. Shaw was right, youth is indeed wasted on the young. There are posters and announcements plastered on every available surface that invite them to lectures, exhibitions, workshops, authors’ talks, book signings, library events, choir practice auditions, the student acting group's performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream al fresco, under the stars. The atmosphere is so nonchalant, as if this is all normal, but we all know it is not and that the intellectual stimulation of this volume and scope could sustain one for two lifetimes.
I romanticise their student life, of course, there must be hardships too. Cambridge University is not an institution without shortcomings, as reports of racism, systemic inequalities, and elitist segregation testify. The rigour and criteria expected to even come here are enormous. To remain in the inner circle must be even harder, and the famous Bridge of Sighs bears witness to that. According to the local legend, it got its melancholic name due to all the agonising sighs that escape students crossing it on their way to exams. I would change places with them in a heartbeat, though.
There are nine historical bridges crossing the river Cam, and one of them, The Mathematical Bridge, is a puzzling feat of engineering, rumoured to be constructed by Sir Isaac Newton himself. The other, not less likely possibility is that the bridge was constructed without any nails, bolts, nuts, or screws, like a perfect, sophisticated wooden puzzle in which every piece fits perfectly. The river Cam is the pulsing artery of the village, reflecting weeping willows whose branches dip inside the water as if it were an inkpot. The Backs is a popular part of Cambridge too, running behind university buildings, where all the picnicking takes place. Cows graze peacefully on the sides, people lie in sunchairs, cocktails in hand. Punting is the favourite pastime of tourists. They are guided deftly by a gondolier of sorts who pushes the boat with a long pole. Tourists float slowly in a boat amidst the swans and water lilies, looking at all the vast gardens of the surrounding colleges, and hearing of pranks and tricks that the students did during their time here.
Not all colleges are born equal. Some are more endowed than the others, being funded by kings in the old times, and also chosen as the alma mater of numerous modern monarchs. Aesthetically speaking, the differences are more conspicuous. The most famous of them are stone-clad, Gothic, phantastical palaces with an inner courtyard called the quad. These ancient colleges have a cloister-like atmosphere of privacy and monastic seclusion, which makes perfect sense, knowing that originally, they were created to teach theology. You can walk in their sumptuous gardens, arranged in that unmistakably English way, when everything seems wild and overgrown and chaotic, but at the same time, everything is in perfect harmony. You can climb their majestic marble staircases and attend the near sunset Mass called Evensong. You can wander in their ancient libraries, inhale the intoxicating smell of old leather-bound books and manuscripts, and peek into Victorian glass cases that treasure first editions, eccentricities such as Charles Darwin's hair, or Shakespeare's First Folio.
There is typically an accompanying chapel, with mosaic windows and intricately carved choir benches. They are obligatory to visit for their fan-vaulted ceilings, miracles of construction and architectural witticism particular to England. I dare you to stop looking up in admiration while in the King's College Chapel, or in The School of Divinity in Oxford, long after you have craned your neck to its limits. There are other, more modern colleges, full of highly utilitarian, forgettable buildings made of red brick. Confine yourself to the first ones, and among them, King's College, St. John's, and Pembroke College were my favourites.
Interestingly enough, Cambridge has a reputation for being one of the most haunted places in the UK, and it is believed that many colleges have their own resident ghosts. Former students or professors who died in the wars, or the famous ghost dog Black Shuck, who is supposed to prowl the ancient streets. We haven't seen anything like that, but it is easy to imagine Cambridge as haunted while in the thick grip of November fog, when all kinds of eerie hallucinations could spring to mind.
If you are a fellow member of the sect that firmly believes that you could never have too many books, rest assured. You have come to the right place. Cambridge is absolutely crammed with bookshops. You will have your heart's fill, guaranteed. The glossy, expensive chains are there, but it is satisfying to meander a bit off the beaten track and find a bookshop that suits your specific reading preferences. I lucked out when I entered Bodies in the Bookshop, which specialises in crime fiction. You can buy other genres there, too. Those delectable clothbound classic editions we cannot get enough of are there as well. But the real joy is in the treasure hunt upstairs, among the dusty old Agatha Christies, Marjorie Allinghams, and books of Dorothy L. Sayers. These golden age of crime novelists, together with many others, are the main prizes here. Fight your shyness that is inborn to all the readers, and talk to the owner. He is the kindest person, at the same time extremely knowledgeable and gives superb reading suggestions.
Then there is the Cambridge University Press, the bastion of academic books along Oxford University Press, which represents a magical open sesame for all of us who studied English and admired it from afar. These past moments when a dictionary or a grammar textbook would finally arrive from England to our home address were pure magic. Their books, functional as they might be, were bringing inside them a hidden promise. That we will learn, improve, and better ourselves, and that the world will be ours for the taking. Salad days, glorious days.
A few days in Cambridge were far from enough, so luckily, there was the trip to Oxford ahead of me. Again on the train, I admired the countryside filled with idyllic scenes of vacationers sailing, fishing, swimming, or picnicking on the river shores in the shade of mighty English oak trees. The lush greenery of the forests, the brambles heavy with wild blackberries, and all the rustic hedges completed the tableau and made me think of Beatrice Potter's illustrations. I felt torn between watching these whimsical scenes unfold in front of me and reading the most quintessential English book of all time: I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith. In the end, unable to decide, I multitasked and did both.
Oxford is the same and completely different to Cambridge. This is also an academic superstar of a place if there ever was one, and the scholarly atmosphere is in every pore and every amber-coloured stone of its every ancient building. The punting tradition exists in Oxford as well, while some colleges bear the same names as in Cambridge (Jesus, St. John’s, Trinity College…). Oxford is also intricately connected to water, with the river Cherwell, the Thames, and the Oxford Canal winding slowly through it.
However, Oxford is not a pastoral village, but a proper city that just happens to have a world-famous university attached to it. It gives you the notion that this city could go on independently of its thirty-nine colleges, if it had to. It would certainly be a pity to turn down all the tourists that surely bring a huge income to it. The massive double decker buses, the guided groups, prospective students with their families, all of them make it difficult to have the same tranquility like in Cambridge. To add to the bustle, we arrived in Oxford at the exact moment of a graduation day, so that must have contributed to the overall commotion and daunting numbers of people in the streets.
It was an unexpected, poignant treat to see the young Oxford graduates in their ceremonial academic gowns, taking pictures in front of the circular Radcliffe Camera, beaming with happiness and relief, throwing their hats in the air. All that youthful enthusiasm, the sense of possibility, and academic recognition condensed. Their families beside them, proud, teary and emotional, all united in celebration of this unique, memorable day for them all. Who knows how many steps, supportive preparatory actions, and refusals to give up led to this moment? How many resources and how much planning went into this degree? It must be a joint effort and achievement of the whole family to have an Oxbridge graduate in the family.
What made me especially pleased to see was the fact that so many of the students were of Asian, Arabic, and African descent. After centuries of British imperialism, it felt like a suitable epilogue, a tiny piece of poetic justice served. The Empire Strikes Back. Not with force, military conquest, looting, or war, but it strikes with the intelligence, education, and hard work of its youths. They are coming for you, England, as your future prime ministers, MPs, doctors, bankers, and lawyers. Well played, periphery.
Oxford University is renowned for its arts and humanities, and some notable alumni, the Oxonians, are: Margaret Thatcher, Indira Gandhi, Oscar Wilde, T. S. Eliot, J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, Lewis Carroll, and many more.
The colleges of Oxford are glamorous, honey-coloured, and extensive, complete with chapels, gardens, and strolling paths. Magdalen College must be the prettiest of Oxford’s colleges. It has a resident deer park, large grounds, and nine Nobel Prize-winning alumni. They must be doing something right there. The residential streets of Oxford are very silent, with slim, narrow, terraced houses with brightly coloured doors and cosy bay windows. You think that such lovely houses must be filled with writers only, and you would not be wrong. Barbara Trapido, Philip Pullman, Ian McEwan, Mark Haddon and many more have homes here.
The bookshops of Oxford are treasure troves of everything that was ever written and published, and it can even be slightly discouraging to see it all in one place. The paralysis of choice hits you like a tsunami wave. To choose only a limited amount seems too cruel as well. Is it too much, or not enough, to bring home 22 books, I wonder. Asking for a friend, naturally. I am of the opinion that there are some things that the English do superbly well. Tea biscuits, ethnic food, gardening, and their posh accent first come to mind. But there is another thing: the art of creating book covers that are so divine that you cannot think straight. They are brighter, softer, more embossed, and more appealing than anywhere else in the world. You may already possess those books, but not with those book covers. You must have them. English book covers are my Sirens, and I have never been able to refuse their call. Damned be the excess baggage fees.
Oxford is an eccentric place full of strange traditions, tortoise races, colour-coded carnations on the lapels of students, ancient rivalries between colleges or rather bonkers tradition of saving the universe by walking backwards. It is the home of the phenomenal Ashmolean Museum, which is a more condensed, easier-to -navigate version of the British Museum. Even the most enthusiastic of visitors find the latter to be overwhelming in its richness, so the Oxford version could be a better solution.
It is also notoriously expensive and boasts the steepest cost of living in England outside of London. There is a palpable atmosphere of safety, economic prosperity, and privilege. Sit in any coffee shop in the hip, bohemian, cosmopolitan Jericho neighbourhood and while sipping your overpriced cappuccino, just observe. You will notice boutique shops and niche businesses selling exclusively cheese, tailored suits, pricey stationery, and other irresistible trappings such as candles, bookmarks, and tea mugs. That alone would be a sign obvious enough that this city is a horn of plenty. In addition to that, everyone seems utterly comfortable, enveloped in that ease of living demeanor that only being wealthy ever since you could remember can give you. People will nonchalantly go to take their orders and leave outside their costly possessions, such as laptops and bags that come with a medium-range car tag price. So far, I have only seen similar bubbles of wealth in Switzerland and in Dubai.
I have realised that my compulsive necessity to go to England has nothing to do with wealth, but is a spiritual need, in fact. I yearn for England because it inspires me. It satisfies my longing for culture, arts, fashion, beauty, thoughts, impressions, books, and knowledge. I feel that I am not far from the Georgian era ladies who populated Jane Austen novels, who craved to visit London during the Season, to stay abreast with the latest trends in the length of the hem, and the type of hats that are all the rage there. They would bring back to their sleepy villages the latest gossip, fashionable dances, frocks, and new energy. I can happily report that colourful quilt jackets will be big this autumn. Cambridge and Oxford made me feel supercharged with everything that matters to me.
Whenever I am on holiday somewhere extremely delightful, I have this toxic trait. I walk around not as a tourist, but as a real estate seeker. As if indeed we will pack up our perfectly snug and organised life and move there tomorrow. So I propose visits to the most livable neighbourhoods, away from famous landmarks, but with vast parks and desirable schools nearby. I shamelessly peek into people's living rooms and over their fences to estimate if their property would be the one for us. I make mental notes of their gardens and the sizes of their garage. I know. I am deeply embarrassed, but I can't help it. The daydreaming of possible parallel lives and paths not taken was always my preferred hobby.
This time, my real estate epiphany came on the train returning from Oxford to London. I could see villages that looked exactly like a mise-en-scène for a Miss Marple episode. Nestled in a sea of endless green, they consisted of neatly curated red brick houses. They would have an old pub in a Tudor building whose exposed beams shone like ancient whale bones in sunlight. There would be a church and the accompanying vicarage. The cylindrical public mailboxes were dotting the streets like red mushrooms. On the brim of one such a village, on the outskirts of Oxford, I saw a cottage under a gnarly, majestic tree. The house was old, all wonky, with an overgrown garden and plenty of shaded nooks and crannies ideal for a summer day.
I am sure it must be a most uncomfortable home, a heated inferno in summer, with leaks during raintime, and terrible icy draughts at all other times. I am positive the house is an administrative nightmare that swallows money needed for its maintenance. I am certain my husband would hate its low ceilings and would repeatedly hit his head inside it. I know my son would protest because there are no cutting-edge gadgets available. But me? There is nowhere I would rather live than there, off-grid and lost in uninterrupted reading and baking marathons. I would potter around, embroider, and eat my shortbread biscuits. I would sing in a church choir if they would have me. I would religiously audit all the lectures, plays, and exhibitions at Cambridge and Oxford. I would be content. And if a murder happened in the village, I would gladly step in, in my tweeds, with knitting needles in my carpet bag. Just saying.