Papa Bouilloire Chapter the Tenth

In my Monday meanderings I strolled down this little street where the light caught the cobbles most propitiously.
In my Monday meanderings I strolled down this little street where the light caught the cobbles most propitiously.

Chapter the Tenth – in which I do very little

Monday 8th of …

As I so clearly hinted in my last chapter, Monday held no adventures worth relating unless your heart delights at the prospect of hours of leisurely strolling about the parks and drinking deeply of nature at its loveliest.

I spent the morning awaiting the return from London of My Learned Colleague who, exhausted from the joys of the capital, promptly went to bed. I therefore went out into the city, but discovering that the Ashmolean was closed (Outrageous!), contented myself with a browse through the wonderful emporiums that were strewn throughout the town.

 

Although the “Pound Shop” offered remarkable value for money on mats for the seaside, little else appealed. A desultory meander past a host of other shops, all seemingly operated by 2 Victorian gentlemen with names like “Burntwhistle and Snodgrass” or “Twenby and Son” yielded little of interest and therefore I took to the meadows and passed the day away in many a deserted lane or meandering path. As this constituted the entire day I feel I have short changed you so here append a poem, penned in a moment of bucolic rhapsody…

This bucolic scene was just one of many that inspired me to compose my ode.
This bucolic scene was just one of many that inspired me to compose my ode.

 

Ode to a City

 

Oh pellucid stream, that ripples by the greying towers

Oh the pastoral dream, to sit and watch a deer for hours

All amongst the blooming flowers,

Ne’er wet by summer showers.

 

‘twould require a pair of pliers

To tear one’s gaze from dreaming spires.

 

How the heart doth throb,

At every medieval knob.

How the heart doth sing

At everything.

 

Where the blooming hollyhocks, spring forth amongst the ancient rocks,

And the seeds of Linden tree, fill the air with flossy glee,

Mine heart is filled will new sensations,

There amongst the crenulations.

 

In the darkling street and alley,

Tempting one to stop and dally,

Every turn a wondrous view,

A tower, a gate, a gothic pew.

 

Window mullioned, cloister splendid,

Pointed arches, lawns well-tended,

Ease and comfort here is blended.

Hall and chapel end-to-ended!

 

Oh the cheerful stunt, of wielding well a punt!

 

Here, combined with august learning, that for which one’s heart is yearning,

What could possibly supply,

The answer to the soul’s deep cry?

 

A fortnight stay in Oxford.

Every chapter of Papa Bouilloire’s scintillating adventures is but a click away

HERE

In the next rollicking installment Papa Bouilloire leaves the comfortable surrounds of Bath and ventures out to those dens of vice and iniquity – Chipping Norton and Woodstock.

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