Now, since it's been a while, I fancy a little recap is in order. After touring the U.K. with my awesome parents and taking some time to reflect on Hilary, I returned to the 'Shire with a new perspective: two months, one speed: full on. And though this *may* have led to my knees falling apart from running, heck, it's not like it hurts in the other areas. Indeed, when one cannot engage in one area, fully engage in all the others, and it'll work out.
So early May: A May Day celebration on the first day of the fifth month of the two-thousand-and-tenth year of our Lord. Hence wake up before sunrise, walk to the Magdalen Bridge half-asleep, and listen for the choir to sing traditional madrigals from the Great Tower. According to wikipedia some opt to jump off the Bridge into the river Cherwell per tradition, but this sounds more like recently-developed antics (from the 1970s, i.e. yesterday Oxford time) than old-time routine. Nevertheless, considering the lack of amplification, the choir certainly projects well.
Early May again (the next weekend): St. Hugh's Ball. O.K., picture Alice in Wonderland mixed with a town carnival mixed with a Billy Madison graduation party with every attendee in black tie or a dress. And all the free food and drink you could ask for. The party became a blur after about midnight, but I distinctly recall riding a miniature train (pictured below), bartering with the Jägermeister lady for a Hawaiian lei, making my way through the Triwizard tournament maze (also pictured below), and finishing the night with Killer Queen (cover band) blasting "We Are the Champions." Yes, we are.
After the revelry, the rhythm of tutorial work really set in. Not that that's a bad thing. Considering I was always up in the air last term, to actually have a set schedule made a world of difference. It also had me working harder. Still, because the weather was far better than in Hilary, I got to (perhaps became obsessed with) doing all my reading outside. A smattering of locales pictured below.
Yet I still got outside the 'Shire itself for a couple of final trips. In late May, per invite, I visited the Queen for tea at her small country cottage in Windsor and played a little polo in the afternoon (insert: like all other tourists I went to Windsor Castle.) The queen was there, though, as indicated by her flag, the Royal Standard, and she did, in fact, go horseback riding that very afternoon before leaving to open Mr. Cameron's new Parliament the next day. Pictured below are the Royal Standard, a.k.a. "Queen's in da crib" flag, and the Union Jack, a.k.a. "Queen's massive crib is owned by dis awesome country," or the more quaint "Her Majesty is not home" flag. I also walked across the Thames to Eton, an elite British boys school known for educating many a P.M., and rode the Ferris Wheel to top it all off. Pictures weren't allowed inside the castle, but I snuck one of my favorite room—the hall for the Knights of the Garter. You see, in England you have just Knights, who can be rock stars or CEOs, and then Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the highest honor in the land, of whom there are only 24 at all times. Being a logo lover, the fact that every Knight has his/her own shield displayed in the Hall, dating back to the 11th century, was just too much. That and the fact that in the old days (i.e. Medieval times), membership was so competitive that those just on the outside of the Order would essentially slander those inside (and nearer the king) in order to get in. Hence there are quite a few blank white shields, which means one's Order membership had been revoked, and often for treason. Oh, and you'd most likely lose your head. Talk about a fall from grace.
My other excursion was in mid-June, to the Gower Peninsula in Wales—the beach of Llangennith (pronounced lang-GUH-nith). I had been eyeing the surf report there for quite some time (Gower is home to some of the most beautiful beaches in all the U.K.) and despite a forecast for rain, I decided to pull the trigger on a three-day, two-night stay. Besides, the surf's usually good when it's raining, and I'd be wet anyway. Well, thankfully, my full day in Gower broke and not a drop fell despite the swell. Perfect. The water was a bit cold (I'm used to Portugal, remember), and after a half-hour I had to get out to hire some booties and gloves in addition to my 5/4 suit. In the beach parking lot on my way back to the shop I saw some locals I'd met at the pub I was staying at, and one of them introduced me to the rest of the crew. "This guy's from America," he told his co-bros before expounding in Elv—I mean Welsh—on, I assume, what the hell an American was doing by himself on the coast of Wales. Then, probably because the previous night I had told them I surf in Maine, one of them gave me a searching look when I explained I was going to hire "a return of the feeling in my extremities. " "Your from New England and cold?" he said with a thick Welsch accent. "Get some f***ing blood in your body." True that sir. Or wear a thicker suit.
**Sick horse/board pic, I know.**
Since then the day's have been 60% reading/writing and 20% World Cup with the rest covered by punting, lawn tennis, concerts, touring the Mini factory, furthering my culinary skills, etc. I'm also currently trying to sell my bike (decided against the $150 shipping costs) which tugs at my heartstrings as I type. I knew I blogged about it earlier, but I've provided some final pictures as a moratorium. Run on, Runabout, and maybe we'll meet again some other day.
That's it, that's all. Signing off. Cheers all—keep the dreams alive! I'll be glued to the BBC for US and England again today. U-S-A! U-S-A!
Nick
