But rather than post it, I decided that, as the morning was beaming so benevolently at me through the window, I would make the delivery of this letter into a day-long adventure, just to see where it might lead me.
The sky was bright and clear and cold, as I set off from my front door, diagonally across Port Meadow, to the secret and very private wildlife habitat of Burgess Field, accessed through a hidden gate from the Meadow, and a truly timeless way to wander into Jericho. It begins as a grass track, slowly turns to earth, and then stone, until you eventually hit the tarmac of Walton Street. A thousand year old journey condensed into about half an hour.
My errand took me to a part of the City into which I rarely venture: where, in the 1960s, civic and bureaucratic buildings rose up out of a forgotten and Medieval part of Oxford, in the shadow of the ancient Castle and prison, where it is still easy to imagine the slum-dwellers and street urchins of the very recent past. People only come here on (mostly grim) business, and the area feels forgotten and forlorn, with few cars and fewer people.
In contrast, I was feeling wonderfully alive after my bountiful 3 mile walk into town, admiring the light and the architecture and the girls, warm blood flowing through my veins, inuring me against the chill of the morning.
I handed my letter to Janice-behind-the-glass, enjoying - as I do so much these days - being older than I once was, and made my way through the grey and fagbutt-strewn streets around the courts, bounding across St Aldate's and out into Christchurch Meadow, looking for somewhere sheltered yet sunlit, to sit and eat my sushi.
You can put up with any amount of grim architecture in Oxford because you know that just around the corner, there will be something extraordinary and sublime to once again lift your eyes to the skies and your spirit to the heavens.
My step was light, and the Meadow deserted but for some deer, as I made my way around the back of the college and found the perfect perch, at the tradesman's entrance of Merton.
I hungrily despatched my lunch, savouring every mouthful with unsavoury noises, and set off once more, surrendering to the pull of the day.
After a only couple of hundred yards, I was delighted to come upon this sign:
I loves me a hot air balloon, that eternal symbol of expansive freedom and eccentric pioneering. And here, in this now deserted spot on Christchurch Meadow, the first ever ascent was recorded. I threw my top hat in the air and strode on.
Ever since I first ventured - at 18 - out of London, the place of my birth, to go camping with a friend in Wiltshire, I have developed a deep and enduring love for the history and nature of this island and its people. Oxford is undoubtedly one of England's centres of mystic history - birthplace of magical dreamers such as Tolkein, CS Lewis, Lewis Carroll, Philip Pullman and Radiohead - and the reason I chose to make my home here.
I humbly consider myself to be of the same lineage as those poet-dreamers: as a songwriter and artist I am always moved by the light and the beauty and the some kind of otherness to be found here. Here's an early effort of mine..
Just after I passed the sign, I wheeled around the corner and into the Botanic Gardens where I bumped into my friend Jim Penny who was just coming out for his lunch break. Jim is a gardener there and actually has green fingers. He is also a wonderful melodeon player. We sat together in the sunshine and talked about women and love and greenhouses.
I was just leaving the Botanic Gardens when I was accosted by two smiling women - Afro and Terry - who had been at last night's Catweazle and were very complimentary about my singing. I enjoy a lovely level of fame in this town!
I took my leave, when my phone - upon which these barely discernible images were captured - received a message from Faceometer, one of the finest, most intelligent and eccentric men in all England. He is doing a PhD in Victorian science fiction, and came careening out of the Bodlian Library, gushing about a story he had just unearthed from 1899 concerning a giant spider that consumes Germany. "This", he raved, "is the Holy fucking Grail".
As we headed off in search of the finest hot chocolate in town, he shared with me his concerns about the employment prospects that such a doctorate could be expected to attract. We agreed that true passion will always find a home and the world would no doubt eventually catch up with him. We nursed a brace of peerless chocolates at the Grand Cafe, and talked about women and love and giant spiders.
I left his Face back at the Bod and marched on for Jericho, as the day was beginning to dim. Heading up Walton Street, i spied the lesser spotted Thom Yorke diving into a doorway and popped into the Jericho Cafe to drop off some flyers.
Another gentleman with whom I have only recently become acquainted was sitting at a table and about to launch into a (very) late breakfast. He bid me join him.
Another passionate and artistic man, of which today has been so delightfully full, James is a theatre director and hairdresser (an interesting combination) and was tending at this moment to a recently shattered heart.
We agreed that one must always, whether in relationship with another or not, remain essentially single: to not lose oneself to another. Or to lose oneself, yes, but not to disappear. He was in the process of reclaiming himself from a love, hook by hook, thread by thread: a painful and protracted process from which, after over a year, I am only just emerging myself. We talked about women and love and what it is to truly stand alone as a man.
The light was almost drained from the sky as I made my way home across Port Meadow beneath a rising full moon.
Later, I went out and danced to a Balkan brass band.
After a only couple of hundred yards, I was delighted to come upon this sign:
I loves me a hot air balloon, that eternal symbol of expansive freedom and eccentric pioneering. And here, in this now deserted spot on Christchurch Meadow, the first ever ascent was recorded. I threw my top hat in the air and strode on.
Ever since I first ventured - at 18 - out of London, the place of my birth, to go camping with a friend in Wiltshire, I have developed a deep and enduring love for the history and nature of this island and its people. Oxford is undoubtedly one of England's centres of mystic history - birthplace of magical dreamers such as Tolkein, CS Lewis, Lewis Carroll, Philip Pullman and Radiohead - and the reason I chose to make my home here.
I humbly consider myself to be of the same lineage as those poet-dreamers: as a songwriter and artist I am always moved by the light and the beauty and the some kind of otherness to be found here. Here's an early effort of mine..
Just after I passed the sign, I wheeled around the corner and into the Botanic Gardens where I bumped into my friend Jim Penny who was just coming out for his lunch break. Jim is a gardener there and actually has green fingers. He is also a wonderful melodeon player. We sat together in the sunshine and talked about women and love and greenhouses.
I was just leaving the Botanic Gardens when I was accosted by two smiling women - Afro and Terry - who had been at last night's Catweazle and were very complimentary about my singing. I enjoy a lovely level of fame in this town!
I took my leave, when my phone - upon which these barely discernible images were captured - received a message from Faceometer, one of the finest, most intelligent and eccentric men in all England. He is doing a PhD in Victorian science fiction, and came careening out of the Bodlian Library, gushing about a story he had just unearthed from 1899 concerning a giant spider that consumes Germany. "This", he raved, "is the Holy fucking Grail".
As we headed off in search of the finest hot chocolate in town, he shared with me his concerns about the employment prospects that such a doctorate could be expected to attract. We agreed that true passion will always find a home and the world would no doubt eventually catch up with him. We nursed a brace of peerless chocolates at the Grand Cafe, and talked about women and love and giant spiders.
I left his Face back at the Bod and marched on for Jericho, as the day was beginning to dim. Heading up Walton Street, i spied the lesser spotted Thom Yorke diving into a doorway and popped into the Jericho Cafe to drop off some flyers.
Another gentleman with whom I have only recently become acquainted was sitting at a table and about to launch into a (very) late breakfast. He bid me join him.
Another passionate and artistic man, of which today has been so delightfully full, James is a theatre director and hairdresser (an interesting combination) and was tending at this moment to a recently shattered heart.
We agreed that one must always, whether in relationship with another or not, remain essentially single: to not lose oneself to another. Or to lose oneself, yes, but not to disappear. He was in the process of reclaiming himself from a love, hook by hook, thread by thread: a painful and protracted process from which, after over a year, I am only just emerging myself. We talked about women and love and what it is to truly stand alone as a man.
The light was almost drained from the sky as I made my way home across Port Meadow beneath a rising full moon.
Later, I went out and danced to a Balkan brass band.
