Footsteps in Oxford

 

I am walking in my own footsteps along these familiar Oxford streets. The stones are wet from overnight rains and puddles form (offering mirrored reflections of dreaming spires).  The sprinkles still fall every now and then. A cold breeze dances along the ancient stone walls of buildings and swiftly cascade around corners. I feel a sense of awe every time I turn a corner with the wind, no matter how familiar it all has become for me. Familiarity still inspires awe. It is what I take with me back home when I have to leave Oxford.

Not only do I walk in my own footsteps around Oxford, but I walk in the footsteps of those from history, recent and ancient. These familiar streets were once familiar to them. I am graced with the ability to gaze upon the same stone structures in admiration, the same dreaming spires, and same buildings holdings thousands upon thousands of books. It remains unchanged since those days. I am standing in places where a shared collective movement of ideas and knowledge have fused into history. 

I am here again, feet tramping along the cobbles. A visitor, true, yet at home in many ways, as a place such as Oxford offers me all the things that could fill my days. I look at all my favourite sights with fresh eyes as if for the first time. My eyes pan the expanse in front of me wherever I happen to be. The Bodleian Library, Radcliffe Square, Turl Street, Brasenose Lane, the Bridge of Sighs, The Sheldonian Theatre, St. Mary's University Church, High Street, Broad Street, Blackwell's.

These words and names fold seamlessly into the vernacular, used multiple times daily as I become a resident for a short period of time. The city becomes my city. We greet the same people working at Christ Church as we go into Hall for breakfast. The commute for the morning is the same. Coffee shop afterwards. Favourite places for meals frequented. Browsing the bookshops and finding wonderful treasures. I breathe in the city of Oxford, watch the Spring flowers open into bloom, and pull my scarf around my neck as I prepare for another jaunt down the streets. Crossing paths with myself, I am back and forth amongst the narrow lanes. The echoes of my footsteps are particularly pronounced walking through into the old Bodleian quadrangle, where signs stand to remind everyone "silence please" for a working library surrounds you. Literally the books are on all sides, even belowground. The best reminder in the world.