The groves of academe

Well, dear readers, it has been quite a few days. I have been on the road on what became a three-centre trip around the country which was as enjoyable as it was exhausting (in ways good and bad).

First, on Thursday, to Durham, for a seminar at the Department of Theology and Religion. Professor Nicholas Watson from the English faculty at Harvard was talking about vernacular Bibles before the English Reformation. I had expected it to be a Lollard-heavy hour but Wycliffe and his followers didn’t dominate proceedings. He began with a marvellous evocation of a scene from Thomas Heywood’s If You Know Not Me You Know Nobody (1605), in which Elizabeth I is presented with an English Bible by the Lord Mayor of London and, in imitation of the elevation and breaking of the Host, lifts it above her head and unfastens it: “So long shut up, so long hid, now, lords, see/We here unclasp: for ever it is free!”

I learned a great deal about early mediaeval vernacular Bibles, from Anglo-Saxon prose translations of the Gospels through Anglo-Norman verse Psalms to Middle English metrical versions of the Old Testament. I was particularly taken with the anonymous Cursor Mundi from around 1300:

Men covettes rimes for to here

And romance rede of mony maner

Of Alisander the Conqueror

Of July Caesar the Emperour…

Sanges sere of selcouthe rime

Ingeles, French and Latine.

To rede and here ilkan is prest

The thinges that ham likes best.

The wise mon wil of wisdome here

The fole him drawes to foly nere…

Bot by the frute men may see

Of wat virtue is ilka tree…

Professor Watson’s central thesis is that vernacular English Bibles (and under the umbrella of “English” he included Anglo-Norman or insular French) existed for centuries before Tyndale’s work and the Great Bible of 1539, and were often tolerated and employed by the Church, though there were periodical attempts to control and license them. But it was an emphatic rejection of the Whiggish idea of an English Bible representing England’s march to independent statehood with Henry’s break from Rome in the 1520s and 1530s.

Then to Oxford’s dreaming spires. The journey, by Cross Country trains, was not a pleasant one. Because of problems on the East Coast main line, more passengers piled on to my train to get at least to York or Sheffield, so the service was very busy and cramped. The wifi was useless; not only did you have to pay for it, an affront enough in this day and age, but it barely worked at all. I had, of course, packed a bottle of wine to numb the pain of public transport (I always do) but with the tray table only just big enough for my laptop it was quite a juggling exercise. I was not at all sorry when we pulled into Oxford and I could leap off (well, slouch, perhaps).

I was staying in my old college, Christ Church, a short taxi ride away. I haven’t been in college since my abrupt departure in 1995, and much has changed. The porters’ lodge is now a symphony in blond wood, looking a little like it was purchased at IKEA, and the staircases are now accessed by electronic key fobs. I was given a guest badge and (unnecessary) directions to Peckwater Quad. My room was not large, but it was clean and had an en suite shower and toilet (though no television – presumably a licensing issue). There is also free wifi throughout college, which I daresay students now couldn’t live without. When I was at the House, the internet had hardly been invented. Typing essays on a computer was considered advanced technology.

Having inhaled a sausage roll at the station, I decided to forgo further solids and found my way instead, relying on very old instincts, to the college bar in the magnificent Tudor undercroft. It, too, has changed greatly in the 20-odd years since my last visit; the bar has moved and there is more light wood and, incongruously, that low-level bluish lighting which nightclubs seem to prefer (so I’m told). The barman, an affable young man, told me with regret that they didn’t serve large glasses of wine, but I was mollified by the fact that the small (very small) glasses of wine on offer were only £1.40. It simply meant more trips to the bar, which I suppose is good exercise.

The bar was initially very quiet – this was, I suppose, about 8.30 pm by now – but began to fill up after an hour or so. The jukebox, I discovered, was free, so the barman and the few patrons were treated to a selection of 1970s singer-songwriter hits from Cat Stevens to Joni Mitchell. They took it on the chin. What surprised me, when others wrested control of the playlist, was that the students, who must have been born in the late 1990s (how terrifying that is to write) seemed to favour songs from the 1980s – we certainly had Come On, Eileen and Relax. It is trite to say how young they looked, but they did. I daresay I did too, in my time, as I was only 17 and shaving was not yet a daily activity. Even in the gloom, though, I could discern that sheen of intelligence and self-confidence which Oxford instills in its students. Perhaps Cambridge is the same (I barely know the place) but it is quite striking on the banks of the Cherwell. At closing time, I returned my teeny-tiny glass, thanked the barman, and returned to my room for an early night.

So on to the main business of my trip, a two day conference entitled “Prison/Exile: Controlled Spaces in Early Modern Europe”. (Those freakish enough to be interested can find more details on the conference Twitter feed, @OxPrisonExile.) After the opening keynote lecture by Professor Rivkah Zim of King’s College, London, “A Politics of Place in Early Modern English Prison Writing”, I was part of a three-person panel discussing “Nostalgia and Utopia”. My paper, which will appear on my academia.edu profile shortly, was entitled “Imprisonment, Exile and the English Church, 1553 – 1558”, and examined the effect that imprisonment and exile had had on three of the leading figures of the Marian Church: Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor; Reginald, Cardinal Pole, papal legate and the last Roman Catholic Archbishop of Canterbury; and Queen Mary herself. Modesty aside, it seemed quite well-received, and sparked a few questions, though my bowels did turn to water when one interlocutor prefaced his question by saying that he was studying Gardiner’s time in prison. An expert on Gardiner I am not.

It was a diverse panel. I was followed by a Hungarian academic, Dr Csaba Maczelka, speaking on prison and exile in early modern English and Hungarian literature; then Dr Florence Hazrat of the University of Geneva (though a St Andrews PhD, hurrah) who talked about the incorporation of imagery from Psalm 137 (come on, you all know the words) in different versions of The Merry Wives of Windsor, among other things. She also played a piece of music by Matisyahu, the well-known Hasidic Jewish rapper.

The rest of the conference went by in a blur of topics from sacrifice on the Elizabethan scaffold to “Barbary Captive Discourse and its impact on the Anglo-American imagination”. I enjoyed much and understood rather less, but it was handy that the conference, at the Ertegun House on St Giles, was but a hop, skip and a jump from the Eagle and Child, that famous haunt of Tolkien, Lewis and the other Inklings (“Oh God, not another fucking elf”). So a few pints were had there in the interstices of the conference.

On Friday night, the great Michael Hennessy came through from Reading to share some cheer. We found a table in the Turf Tavern, an achievement in itself, and, happily, they were serving Old Rosie (for me) and Lillie's Apples and Pears (for Mr H). It was a long-overdue catch-up, and an opportunity for nostalgia for him (he is an Oriel man). I had to pity the poor student who fished out his wallet to pay for his drink at the bar, only for a condom to fall out when he opened it. He didn't notice, bless him, but everyone else did. How we larfed. Somehow, some semblance of sobriety was preserved, or at least we avoided a descent into utter oblivion, though we both became a little lachrymose towards the end of the evening. I am reliably informed he made it home, eventually.

The closing keynote address of the conference was given by my old tutor and chum, Professor Bruce Gordon, formerly of St Andrews, but now wreathed in glory at the divinity school at Yale. His title was “Exile, Refuge and Prison in the Mind of John Calvin”, and it was a tour de force. I have always found Calvin the most unappetizing and unsympathetic of the 16^th century reformers, even more so than the anti-Semitic and scatologically-obsessed Luther, so for me to find an hour-long lecture on him engaging is a testament to Bruce’s manner as well as his undoubted expertise. (He confessed to me over coffee that he’d spent a career trying to deny that he was a ‘Calvin man’ but now finds himself regarded as a world expert. He is much in demand this Reformation Year of 2017.)

When the conference closed, it was time to return to the Eagle and Child (the Inklings called it the Bird and Baby; I prefer the Fowl and Foetus) for a couple of pints and await the next stage of my odyssey, for I was due to stay for two days in Bloxham in north Oxfordshire with my old friend Hugh Martin and his wife Catherine, who teaches at the school there. Hugh very sportingly drove down to Oxford to collect me in his bright orange Jeep and we wended our way through the darkened countryside past Banbury and into the little village of Bloxham itself, where Hugh and Catherine stay in a little college attached to the school.

Over that evening, I had best draw a veil, as I knew it would be the one night on which I could really let my hair down. Suffice to say, there was lasagne, there was wine, there was gin, there was brandy and, as always when Hugh and I are together, there was singing. The usual repertoire. Even the cats slunk away when they saw which way the wind was blowing. And they are normally very friendly cats.

Sunday dawned bright and clear, though it is fair to say none of us rose early. After a late lunch of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs washed down with champagne, and with another job application completed, Hugh and I wandered to one of the (I think) three pubs in the village, the Elephant and Castle, which, to our delight, served no fewer than five different kinds of still cider. I had the Henry Weston’s Family Reserve, and it is a delicious glass (or glasses). The barman was friendly but not intrusive, and some locals came in and chatted about motor racing while their excellent dog, a little West Highland White terrier, sat amiably at their feet. We retired for dinner and Top Gear (I am still not convinced by the new cast), and had a reasonably early night.

Then came the unexpected part of the journey. On Friday morning, while in Oxford, I had been asked if I could present myself in London for an interview on Monday afternoon. It was rather short notice, and, of course, I was travelling without a suit, but I am nothing if not intrepid (that’s a lie), so I put away my return ticket and was driven to Banbury station where I caught the train to Marylebone. Of the interview I will say little until I know the outcome. But the opportunity of being in London was too good to miss, so after I had been quizzed I walked along Millbank, dragging my bundle behind me, and made for The Speaker on Great Peter Street, one of the best pubs you will find in London. There the inestimable landlord, Dennis, treated me with the scant courtesy which I have come to expect, and I settled in for an afternoon of Guinness. A couple of old colleagues from the madhouse joined me to catch up, and, as the saying goes, a good time was had by all. Well, by me, anyway. I won’t speak for them.

Thence across the river in a Uber to Clapham, to stay for one final night away from home with my very old chum Pete Murray and his (as it turned out) very comfortable sofa. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of months so we headed out briefly for an excellent sourdough pizza at Franco Manca on the Northcote Road, before he had to retire to his room to work on a pitch (he recently started a new job and they are working him hard). Not before we watched the final episode of Meet the Lords, however, which has been an interesting insight into the Upper Chamber for one who used to work at the opposite end of the building. Black Rod has ensured a lot of camera time, which I don’t think has wholly endeared him to some colleagues, and my old boss Robert Rogers, now Lord Lisvane, overcame his natural shyness to pop up a couple of times. As a series, I don’t think it has been quite as effective as Inside the Commons, and I think at times they have been guilty of rather hamming it up (though when you are dealing with old hams like Lord Cormack, there’s a limit to what you can do). I loved Lord Palmer in the first episode, he of the silver staircase, but I warmed rather less to Lady King and Lord Tyler.

And so the weary pilgrim returned home. Grand Central, for whom I have a lot of time, had impeccable wifi for once – take that, Chiltern – and the usual bottle of wine soothed the strains of the journey. I was very pleased to drop my bag last night and sink into a dry martini (Sacred cardamom gin and English dry vermouth) then spend a night back in my own bed.

If I were a travel writer, I would probably draw some profound lessons from my peregrinations. If there is one, I suppose, it would be that you should always travel with a tie, because you never know when one might need it. (At work I kept a black tie in my desk in case a Royal were to be gathered unto God.) I will say this: it was delightful to be in Oxford again after a long absence, and Christ Church made me very welcome as an old member, even if I never graduated; London was everything it always is; friends at least affected to be pleased to see me, which was touching; and if I never travel on Cross Country again as long as I live I will be happy.

This has been rather longer than I intended. For those of you who’ve made it to the end, I salute your courage, your strength, your indefatigability. Hatta al-Quds, as the man said.