Alice at Oxford After breakfast, Myra and Pamela announced that they were anxious to explore Oxford and would ride with the luggage-taxi to get an early start on sightseeing. Don and I decided to walk from Sandford-on-Thames, a distance of six miles, to Oxford, and then meet the women at the Tourist Office near the bus depot. I thought we could do that distance in less than three hours with lots of stops and detours or as the British. Say, ‘diversions’. With agreement on the plan reached, Don and I were dropped off at the trail head and our mates continued with the taxi and luggage to our new destination, the Gables guesthouse on Cumnor Hill in Oxford. At the Sandford lock I became curious about the river’s depth. Not that this was the first time I puzzled over the question, but I now had the opportunity to ask one of the lockmasters about it. He sat in his hut alongside the lock and greeted us with a two-finger salute touching his cap, which he wore in a rakish manner at the back of his head. “Good day to you sir,” I noticed that he was a short, heavyset man with unnerving bronze-flecked eyes. “We were wondering,” I continued, “if you might tell us the depth of the river?” With a foolish smile plastered on my face I then added. “We are walking from London to Lechlade and wish to know more about our watery companion.” He arched his eyebrows, touched his chin with a tender caress of the hand and said, “Obviously, mates, the deepness will vary depending upon rain, snow, and need down river.” He had a gentle skittish way of speaking. “The average river depth is approximately twenty feet.” His eyes shifted from mine to Don’s. “The Water Authority is charged with maintaining a minimum water height of four-feet down river from Oxford.” One hand rubed his forehead as if to unlock a memory. “And above Oxford on up to Lechlade, three-feet is the required mark.” A tentative smile parted his thin lips revealing the rich, bright glint of his teeth. “By the way sir,” I said, “would you happen to know who the first Prime Minister of England was?” “Sorry, I never talk politics.” He looked at me as if to say ‘you Americans are all daft.’ Then he turned and entered his Lockkeepers control shelter. Walking at a fast pace, we quickly pasted the Isis Bridge, which carries the name locals use for the Thames River. Don suggested we detour through the village of Iffley to inspect the Norman church, St Mary's. Over Iffley lock we went, up a steep circular cobblestone path into the churchyard. The front of the building lacked interesting detail. We walked through nine centuries of vertical grave markers to the rear of St Mary’s where we were rewarded with elaborate doorway decorations. Carved half-man, half-animal figures, interspersed with flowers, covered the entire space surrounding the door. Don thought that flower carvings on Norman structures were unusual and very rare. It gave me a sense of being special, a witness to a man-created rarity, as if I somehow had something to do with its creation. Back on the river path I noticed several boats punting along the opposite bank. Punting is propelling the boat like the gondoliers did in Venice, Italy, except that these are flat crafts with a pusher person using a long pole to move the boat along. They must have been amateurs or tourists, which are the same thing, piloting the punt boat, since they were struggling to get the craft to move in the direction they wanted to go. We were entering the outskirts of Oxford and traffic along the park-like riverfront increased, with students, dog walkers, and bikers crowding the towpath. Don pulled out his map of oxford and confidently located the street bridge we would take to lead us to the Tourist office. The path was still surprisingly attractive with a variety flora, interesting building, quaint footbridges and never ending medley of watercraft. Leaving the river we made our way through a network of twisting medieval like streets, past several colleges. We arrived at the tourist office slightly past noon and quickly found the women next door in a pub finishing their late morning pint. A slight breeze kicked its way across the city streets, bringing a chill that required more outer garments. I must have been a sight with three layers of shirts, a velour vest, gloves, and short pants. Myra and Pamela had taken a city tour bus to get the layout of Oxford and were now ready for some in-depth exploration. There is so much to see and do here that we decided it might be best to split up and explore different parts and then share what was discovered later during dinner. “After all,” Pamela said, “we still have all day tomorrow to look around.” After a quick pub lunch we went our own way; Pamela and Don decided to join a tour of colleges, while Myra and I would do all the used book shops we could locate, and Christ Church. At Christ Church I looked for the architectural details that Professor Dodgson incorporated in his Alice fairytale’s. I located the Norman door to Alice’s father’s Chapter house; the door is the one that Alice demands the Frog Footman open for her. Then a line from Through the Looking Glass came to me: “Where’s the servant whose business it is to answer the door? She began… “To answer the door?” he said. “What’s it been asking of?” In the hall I saw a fireplace with brass firedogs that must have inspired the illustration of Alice with an immensely long neck. Alice Liddell, whom Dodgson told his tales to, and named his character for, pretended that the carved lions on the Christ Church Deanery staircase chased her. The bell in Tom Tower, where Dodgson had his rooms, became the voice of the lion in Through the Looking Glass; when he speaks, “in a deep tone that sounded like the tolling of a great bell”. And finally in the dinning hall where today’s students dress formally to dine, I could easily visualize the royal banquet when Alice cries, “I can’t stand this any more,” pulls the tablecloth off the high table, and the port decanters acquire wings, flying back to the Common Room. As we left the college grounds, Myra took my hand in both of hers, looked me in the eye with an expression of adoration and said, “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird and shun The Frumious Bandersnatch!” The Jabberwocky never sounded as wonderful as it did on that day, standing in Tom Quad at Christ Church College. It was a short bus ride to Blackwell’s Book Shop where we browsed its three floors of English literature. Myra bought several paperbacks by authors she knew; Penelope Lively, Julian Barnes, and Kazuro Ishiguro. It was difficult to resist purchasing dozens more, but we knew the weight and space limits of our luggage and pushed the thought out of our minds. Myra insisted we walk back to the Tourist Office for our meeting with Don and Pamela. The sun hardly showed itself, but we were warmed by our own fires of discovery and all too soon, arrived at our destination. This is another stretch of a 150 mile walk along the Thames River starting in West London and ending at the river’s source. Our friends Don and Pamela, my wife Myra, and I completed the self-guided trek over a 17 day vacation.