summer of '71 part 2 . . .

Our actual stay at St. Hilda's college is a jumble . . . shards of memories. Our required reading had been completed prior to arrival . . . well except for James Joyce's Ulysses, which none of us managed to wade all the way through . . . our professor merely accompanied us to the British lectures. While those studying history were bogged down in homework, our man, bless his heart, announced that our time would be much better spent absorbing the culture of the area. Hooray! The classes were dry to say the least and difficult to follow in that British humor differed so vastly from our own that while the bulk of the class was tittering away, we were looking at each other in confusion.

But there was punting to be done . . . we really should have known what a weir was prior to our first boating escapade: frantic voices urging us back from the edge . . . afternoons spent in Blackwell's booksellers, and of course the requisite pub crawling. One particular odd afternoon found six of us round a table. A German, a Spaniard, a French girl, Cyndee and I and a Dutch lad. The German wanted to chat but since neither of us spoke the others language, we made do with me chatting brokenly in Spanish to the Spaniard who in turn spoke to the Dutchman, who translated to the German. Convoluted at best I was never sure what I said ever made it to his ear in any semblance of it's original meaning or if it was more like an old fashioned game of 'telephone'?

There were side trips to Stone Henge,

fairy rings, Salisbury Cathedral and Anne Hathaway's cottage.



The local outdoor food markets were particularly fascinating. Refrigeration being at a minimum, shopping was done everyday. Each vendor posted an impaled beast on a stick by way of advertising his wares. We soon learned to skirt the swine booths, preferring our Boars to be names of pubs and confined our visits in general to the early morning hours before the air became rank with aromas left better unidentified. Meals at St. Hilda's were unique unto themselves. Most every thing was served under a crust, be it the dreaded Steak and Kidney Pie, or the most delicious of fruit tarts. Four minute eggs were the call to breakfast as were rashers of Canadian bacon . . . it was bluntly, an adjustment. We became fast aficionados of Wimpy burgers or better yet . . . the delightful fish: Plaice . . .wrapped accommodatingly enough in newspaper atop a handful of chips . . er . . . fries.

All and all we made it through the six week course, stashed our suitcases once again and headed west to Wales . . .

OK, so this is not Wales, but I thought I would stick in a shot of me, in my Paddington Bear T-shirt, sitting in the Scottish Heather.

Ah, to be 21 again.