An Oxford Long Weekend ii)

So to the Conan reference:

I went punting with Caroline down the Cherwwell and then, erroneously down the Isis. Oh yes, the Thames is called the Isis here in Oxford: if you have a problem with that I would suggest... no in fact there is no remedy, you have to live with it.

So we packed some sandwiches and a bottle of Spain's finest £4.99 wine for a trip down stream. And indeed it was down stream - I had the bright idea of suggesting we 'drift' for a while, enjoying some wine and scenery. Sure, pleasant enough, but once we left the sheltered Cherwell waters and were on the high seas of the Isis, drifting took on a new pace. I don't know whether it was the Iberian imbibition or not, but I thought that working our way back upstream wouldn't be such a hassel. In a way, it was.

Eventually we came upon a fork in the river up ahead - the left was guarded by a long hanging bridge with DANGER written on it im imposing red letters - the right was a lock, to take river life to the next level. Time to turn around, and so it began: I in the back, not quite being able to reach the bottom of the canal with the punting pole and thus getting very poor purchase, and Caroline in the front with the small paddle, which is there mainly for show and doesn't really work so well in these conditions, even though we were in probably only a 3 on the Beaufort Scale (that's right...)

Eventually with some heave-hoing we got back to the relatively calm waters of the Cherwell, stopped for some food and continued back to base. There we saw a puntload of Eastern Europeans whom we had passed earlier in our saga. There was a woman at the till (bow) with her legs trailing in the water, trying to 'help' with casual strokes with the toy paddle. Amidships were two people who were drenched to the bone and in need of some chilling out medicine, but by far the best sight was the punter - one rather large bloke with arms the size of kettles (I was searching for inspiration around the room, and the next best was detergent bottles.) He was well and truly over punting - the look in his face made it clear. Added to his overall frustration of the day was perhaps the most comical site, at least for me - he was not so keen on technique and thus was standing hunched over grabbing the pole with both hands and, instead of pushing off the base of the canal, he was using the pole in the same way as a kayaker. All this did was make large splashes to the already drenched people in the punt and cause them to move around in a circle. He was getting more and more ready to kill someone and indeed, the perfect world would have been one in which he raised his head desparingly to the heavens shouting, KRUM GIVE ME STRENGTH. I laughed heartily then manouevered the punt away from the beast, lest he not appreciate the comical side.

Ah Conan.

An Oxford Long Weekend i)

Well there are still tales to be told re the return to Canberra in July, and in theory, those would be up by now. But as this weekend past is still fresh in my mind - and since I just scared someone who was coming around the corner to collect her washing (I was thinnking about one of the tales below, laughed heartily and shouted out KRUM! and she jumped at the Conan reference, thinking the building had been invaded by warrior renegades.)

Caroline stayed here in Oxford town en route to Geneva. She had good times up Scotland way, and although no single malt bottles were purchased, she did find me a guide to the hidden inns and outs (that's going in the book) of places to stay in (Old) Caledonia.

Day 1, or rather, Evening 1, consisted of a pint at the King's Arms of some standard English beer - warm and flat. The accompaniment was a most venerable packet of pork scratchings - delightful rinds of pork injected and infused (Gillete shaving cream ad style) with extra salt and fat: for the good times. The Quiz Machine was hit up: somehow we got into the WARZONE in Battleships, which involved a lot of quizzical (HA!) looks and pushing random buttons, to win £4.50. Then came the habitual dogging of me, by the machine:

Who was the first wicket-keeper to score centuries in both innings of a test match?

A) Rod Marsh
B) Andy Flowers
C) Alec Stewart

I didn't know, but we had a try again, so a guess was on the cards. I looked at B - Andy Flowers? Florae? Plural? Surely not - the Flower Brothers, although there were two of them, were each singular men - and a double plural would just defy any sensible scoring sheet. So, after realising that B) was in fact a fictitious cricketer, I selected A, for the simple reason that Rod Marsh was not English and therefore could bat. WRONG. OK, says I, proud of my deductive reasoning - we shall pick C the only sane answer left in the shed. Oh no - wrong again and the £2 we were charging towards ran off into the sunset with the barman. I stood there for a while, stunned, taking swigs of my thick syrupy Cornish ale, wondering Why, Why would the game do that to an innocent player? From now on... it is personal.

Trivia, skiing and Eesti-ma

A portion of the time was spent catching up with some of the lads from the glorious B&G days of nabbing the bus, pseudo-legal poker games in the Redback lounge and plenty of fresh air. An axis of sophistry was created to deliver some beach justice to the local clubs' trivia nights and first up was Turner Bowls Club and their crazy ways.

The questions were fairly rubbish: take the 'Music' round - not a single note from before 1970 which blocked my 170 JS Bach CDs from coming to the party. Furthermore: 'In which country is the following resort?' [Thus followed a picture of that WORLD resort which looks like.... the world, and is in Dubai. Thus the answer is, as all cricket world cup qualifying enthusiasts {and perhaps others} should know, is The United Arab Emirates.] We, along with other hard working citizens, were marked incorrect for that question, the answer being, apparently, DUBAI. That is right up there with Perth being the capital of WEST Australia. Classic.

There was a bonus round though - all 3 questions correct = $350 cash money.

1) Prior to the introduction of mercury, what type of alcohol was used in thermometers in Europe in the 16th century?
2) In what year was the Eureka Stockade Rebellion?
3) In which sport would you find 5 pieces of wood at the end of a chain?

Ross destructed the middle order, I nabbed the final one, but the first one eluded us and also our chance for riches. The group, thus disappointed, thought that a trip to the casino will lighten our moods: how wrong we were. But the other point to come out of the evening was an invitation to an upcoming trip to the snow, on which I will not dwell very long.

I was not troubled by the snow, but that was all the positivity I could take out of it. And the good times, there were a few of those. Dicing with death re chains for the tyres, and explaining to Will that he needed to hedge some of the cost, for one. But all the Cod Liver Oil in Christendom could not make my knees supple enough to avoid excruciating pain whene'er I fell down, which was more frequently than the spills and thrills of a Laurel ad Hardy Movie. So, skiing and I settled out of court and are now both living happier and more enriching lives.

Lastly I introduced a new continent to the wonders of Estonia's national Liquere: Vana Tallinn, which was become known as Eesti-ma down South, for reasons of mavericity explained in earlier entries. Also the hard man's drink of choice (as voted by Hardy McHardMan Magizine), the 80% Estonian Vodka, went down a treat, and fortunately didn't come up again.

Victoria (non regina)

So some venturing around the Great South Land, although not quite Matthew Flinders esque in its circumnaviagtory scope, was required so after a few days to get over the jet lag and reaquaint myself with wintery weather, Di and I hit the road bound for Victoria. [I have discovered a phenomenon akin to, and indeed complimentary with jetlag, which I have taken to call the 'flesh lag'. Going from one hemisphere where everyone is rugged up against the cold into another where summery dresses and less clothing in general are worn. Takes a little to get used and was most noticeable on the return to Blightly where some bright male sparks think that they will be cooler with shirts off (and sunburn on) and women oft impersonate Marylin Monroe when the wind whips through the dresses.]

In Beechworth [of Ned Kelly/bakery/gold rush fame] we stayed with my aunt and uncle at their bed and breakfast. I sent a telegram from the Beechworth Telegraphy Station, which claimed to be 'The busiest telegraphy station in the world!' I was not to be outdone with their fancy claims of hyperbole so I asked the little old lady at the counter, how it was the busiest in the world. She must have seen that coming with my maverick swagger and attempts to impress Di with my telegraphy knowledge, vast and extensive though it may be. Anyway her response was, 'There aren't many operational stations left in the world.' Say WHAT? That's like mowing a cricket pitch in the park next to the MCG and say, 'This is the best pitch in the city', but I didn't want to argue with here, so left it alone. I do remember that 'telegram' was a maverick word back in the day, and clever people thought it should be 'telegrapheme' to be 'more correct' (whatever that means) but it is here to stay. I thought about bowling this googly to her because yes, since you ask, it would make me feel like a big man, but instead I sent a 15 word dispatch to Mum and Dad and paid my $2 donation to make sure that it remained the busiest station in Beechworth at least. I also bought some fudge: Di purchased some 'Lavender' flavoured stuff, and I was not having a bar of that and declared that I would avail mysefl of some more masculine sounding material and grabbed a 'Lethal Weapon', hoping that it would be served with the line, 'I am too old for this sh*$' but it was not to be - Danny Glover does NOT work at the Beechworth sweet house, make a note of that.

Down in Gippsland (we were there just before the floods came, and indeed I got back to England just before their floods came, so I was doing well in the flood sweepstakes) we went to an icon known as 'Trestle Bridge' which was bridgy, to say the least. I casually remarked to Di that it looked pretty high, but that trees in this region (that's right, my arboreal senses are honed like you wouldn't believe) would probably grow 30 metres at least. Di was incredulous and claimed that the bridge could be no higher than 20 metres off the ground. I said, well, no - it would be thirty if it is an inch (always use imperial measurements for emphasis, noone says that someone lives 'Kilometres and kilometres away' now do they?), but was prepared to let the matter stand. Again I was challenged; given that she had spent years training in swimming pools of various sizes, the claim was that one upended 25 metre pool would be an overestimate. There was only going to be one settler in this debate, and that was Newtonian mechanics 101.

I grabbed 3 rocks of similar size and climbed up with Di. After dropping the rocks and using my trusty stopwatch timing was done, mental averaging took place, some squaring and halving, and we were done. 31.25 with an error of say 5 each way due to the clock - and I danced. I don't normally dance, but with this sort of vindication, I felt a 'Trestle Bridge Boogey' was called for. Unfortuntaely the Glen Miller Big Band wasn't there for accompanyment and thus no photos were taken.