For me, places evoke an emotional feeling. Because of this, I avoid impoverished urban areas, industrial complexes, and drab, depressing apartments. It was the desire to experience new feelings that prompted me to take on the goal of visiting a new Oxford College each week.
Hertford College
After the day’s lectures on Wednesday of Michaelmas, week 3, I talked to a couple of students from Hertford College. They invited me to have a beer with them at their college bar. Hertford College lies between Holywell and Catte Streets (across from the Bodleian Library). Its Bridge of Sighs is a famous Oxford landmark.
For architectural beauty, Hertford College is one of the best. Hertford started as Hart Hall in 1282 and became a college 1740. Famous members of the college include John Donne, Thomas Hobbes, Jonathan Swift, and William Tyndale. It is also home to Simpkin the cat, a well-known resident of central Oxford.
Simpkin the Cat
Simpkin, named after the cat in the Tailor of Gloucester (a Beatrix Potter story), took up residence at Hertford College Lodge in the early 1970s. He frequented nearby New College by climbing over walls and roofs. When he passed away, the college replaced him with Simpkins (Simpkin II) in 1986. Simpkins, who also lived at the Lodge and was cared for by the porters, was a keen hunter. “According to the book College Cats of Oxford and Cambridge by Richard Surman, on one occasion he attempted to take on a pair of mallards that frequently visited the college. Simpkins was soon seen in full retreat, being chased down by a very angry drake.” Simpkins had a feline friend called Rosie who lived at New College, and they frequently visited each other. One time, the college darts team took Simpkins along as a mascot, and he ended up locked in St. Edmund (Teddy) Hall’s library.
You can read about Simpkin III and IV (the current college cat) at the Simpkin Dynasty.
The Hertfordians showed me around the college, starting with the MCR.
The Hertford bar, known as DBT (down the bar), seemed to be underground and had the atmosphere of a German Rathskeller. Conversation and beer flowed freely. At 6:45 p.m., I left for Keble because I didn’t want to miss dinner at 7:00.
An End and a Beginning
When I walked through the gate at Keble, I saw Malki leaning against the wall. He was looking dejectedly at the ground, knee bent with one foot on the wall. In his hand was a sheave of handwritten pages in Urdu. I had totally forgotten our date to study Urdu at 5:00. I cannot express how badly I felt. Since I was reeking of alcohol, I apologized and told him the truth. He wasn’t angry; he just said that it was too late to study. But I knew immediately that something had broken. The worst part was that I had chosen to spend my time with people who meant nothing to me, whose names I do not remember, rather than being with someone who cared about me and now was lost because of my thoughtlessness.
It had not occurred to me to find out how to contact Malki, so I had no way to reach out to him. There was a chance that he would come to the Indian music lecture on Thursday, so I went with the hope of finding him there. He did not show up. I asked Mark Stone if he knew how to reach Malki, but he did not. When he saw how sad I was and heard what had happened, he tried to cheer me up and invited me to tea at his house after the lecture. Although I did not realize it, there was someone else who noticed me at that lecture and observed the conversation I had with Mark.
Bourbon Biscuits
Mark lived in a second-floor apartment at 12 Frenchay Road in north Oxford. It was an older building with a bay window and small, coal-grate fireplace. I had never seen such a small fireplace or experienced a coal fire, so he built a fire for me. If you have never experienced a coal fire, then I will tell you that it is the warmest, most comforting fire, better than wood, though I did wonder if it was legal to burn coal in Oxford. Even though Mark had gone to Harrow (a public school), he was not out of touch with other classes. He gave me the option of having a glass of scotch or a cup of Tetley tea with milk. Along with the tea, Mark provided some Bourbon biscuits.
As you can see, in England, a biscuit is a cookie. I love these chocolate-filled sandwich creams. They were first made in 1910 by the Peek Freans biscuit company. The old biscuit factory in Bermondsey, London, has been renovated into a trendy workspace, but the name Bourbon engraved in stone above a doorway indicates what building was used for their production. Here is archival footage from 1906 of the biscuit-making process at Peek Freans. Notice that both men and women are working at the factory, but they are generally segregated and assigned different production tasks (I saw several young lads working). I recommend that you view the full eleven-minute film at A Visit to Peek Frean and Co.'s Biscuit Works. I especially enjoyed seeing the firing up of the steam-driven factory equipment, the arrival of milk in tin cans, the false fire alarm, the workers (extremely well dressed) leaving for home, and the horse-drawn biscuit wagons at the end of the full film clip. All of these scenes are omitted in the shorter excerpt below.
Bourbon biscuits are iconic in England. Entire Etsy shops are devoted to Bourbon-biscuit-themed items.
I am off to have a cup of tea now, as I write to you from San Francisco on a rainy, windy Sunday afternoon.
Wow, it reminds me of helping my Mom make cookies with a cookie cutter. Watching those factory workers makes my back ache...
I love the smell of coal burning. Surely not good for inhalation, but the smell defined western civilization --- at least for a while.