Oxford is a walking city, its ancient narrow streets full of unexpected turns and quiet corners, the gates of the colleges offering a tempting peek into their vine-hung secret gardens.
The honey-colored stone gives the whole city a quiet glow, and the “dreaming spires” of Matthew Arnold’s poem still dream.
Both by necessity and by choice, I’ve spent a lot of time wandering the streets of Oxford. You could set me down in almost any intersection, and I’d know exactly where I was and how to get home. And after many rambles through the gardens of various colleges, I know every one of the dreaming spires by name.
I spent hours walking the streets of Oxford on this visit – with my housemates, with Jacque, with Laura, with Megan, and alone. I stopped often to snap photos, poke into bookshops or other shops, or simply look around.
My feet were tired by the end of the week, but my heart was full. There’s nothing like a good long walk for pleasure and perspective, and I loved every one of my strolls down (and views of) these familiar streets.