A
Muntjac deer bolted across the path in front of us one day. Stocky and hunched, it barely looked
deer-like, more like a pig and left us with a “What the Hell?” feeling for hours. Sometimes a guide book cited tree that might seem
unremarkable in other circumstances touched us as the comforting sign that we
were still on track. The thatched homes
and old manors might seem humble in isolation, but in quantity they framed the whole
experience.
The
modest tomb in Bladon’s churchyard provides the final resting place of Sir
Winston Churchill. Some wonder why his
body does not lie in Westminister Abbey or even on the Blenheim Palace grounds. But St. Martin’s churchyard holds the Churchill family plot and thus the bodies
of his parents, his wife, and his children.
Back
in Woodstock, I had joked that the Brits got their money’s worth from the Palace by
providing a venue for Winston’s premature birth. But, of course, it served
greater purpose by inspiring with expectations of greatness that somehow
slipped off some cousins, but stuck to the defiant little Winnie.
Because
the map showed our route would be increasingly urban as we
approached Oxford, I assumed we would be passing by more and more churchyard-like
markers, street signs, buildings, and obvious references.
So
it seemed strange to see this passage in the guidebook “you are advised to follow route directions below with great care.” We
learned, as you approach the city, the way markers are, in fact, less frequent and
clear. So, we read and looked and read
and looked and found our way down to “the Duke’s Cut” and the locks where we
joined the Oxford Canal leading to the city centre.
We
followed the Canal as the most direct route.
But if you have time, you probably should veer off onto what we
understand is the more scenic River Thames option. The Canal has some pretty spots, and the adjacent
path, which was in past centuries beaten down by horses pulling barges, makes
for an easy walk. But it does have a
dodgy feel.
I
would not say that the people living in boats throw their garbage along the
canal. But the route does have a string
of rusting bicycles, garden furniture, and some sinking barges that do give the
route the air of a recycling plant if not a dump – at times.
In
Oxford, we visited bones and shrunken heads in the Museum, saw a first Folio at
the Bodleian, and did some shopping before officially declaring our walk at an
end. But to do this, we had to find
another Oxford site, one near the end of the Cornmarket pedestrian
mall. This is the location where the
Crown Tavern once sat.
Shakespeare’s
friend John Davenant owned the Crown, and we know that the playwright stayed
here on his walks from Stratford-Upon-Avon.
The convincing evidence includes
the beauty of Davenant’s wife and her son’s suggestions that
Shakespeare may have been more than just his godfather.
Today,
you would not know this location had any significance without such references
and written directions. The entrance leads
to a betting shop, and no signage suggests anything noteworthy ever took place
in this building.
I
can understand why I drew quizzical looks from others in the mall when I posed
in front of the betting shop for a celebratory photo. But, for me, it was another in the string of modest,
but memorable events that helped define our walk on Shakespeare’s Way.
