When in Oxford punting is de rigeur. Fortunately I had The Don to take me out on my first punting experience and we raced along the Isis to the obvious envy of the less adept punters either leaving their poles behind them in the mud or careening out of control into the banks. Despite clear warnings about the toxic nature of the waters, the summer weather brought out huge numbers of startlingly white, singlet wearing Britishers who dog paddled in secluded spots amongst the overhanging trees. Here and there a bucolic swain caressed his lass in a shady dingle and I carefully watched The Don to ensure that when my turn to punt came I would not disgrace myself.
Naturally athletic, I took the pole with confidence and set out on our return journey. After 5 minutes I felt as though I was going to have a heart attack and at the very point where some admiring onlookers in another punt clearly said to their punter, “See, that is how you do it.” my pole became stuck in the mud and the punt careened out of control, carving its way through a particularly dense group of dog paddling putty coloured Britishers.
Well at least I got this picture beforehand.