You’d think getting a train from Paddington Station to Oxford would be a peaceful, lovely journey. You’d sit comfortably as you glide past beautiful scenery and think important thoughts, becoming more and more inspired, as you got closer to the hallowed halls.
The reality is that it is more like a rugby scrum. People gather around the departure boards, waiting for the platform number to appear. There is quiet conversation and patient waiting. When Platform Ten appeared on the screen, I was jostled and pushed aside as the crowd moved towards the waiting train.
A woman with a perfect bob, sensible shoes and pearls pushed past me, power walking with a focus Michelle Bridges would be proud of.
A ‘gentleman’ wearing a beige suit, wing tipped shoes, foppish hair pushing a black bicycle with a basket rammed my suitcase from behind and manoeuvred around me. So much for British manners.
The winners of the race gathered around the closed doors, waiting for them to open. I hauled my suitcase to the rear of a group and stood. Once again, everyone was quiet, except for a group of excited Asian students being hushed by their embarrassed teachers.
The doors opened and the scrum began again. I tried to lift my suitcase up the step, but didn’t have the strength. A girl hauled it up inside and her male companion shoved me up with it. He had a grin on his face, so I presume he was happy to help!
Once on, it was a race to find a seat. No one wanted to be loser and be the one left standing!
I sat next to a handsome looking guy in his twenties and opposite a Jamaican man wearing obligatory dreadlocks and Rasta hat. A young girl perched on the edge of the seat, her legs in the aisle. Four sets of legs between the seats were too much.
The young guy pointed at my Qantas bag and asked if I was Australian. He proceeded to tell me he had been born in Sydney, but left when he was ten as his parents sent him to boarding school in Oxford.
This fired my imagination. I could make a story out of that snippet of information. The notebook and pen came out. I leant on my Qantas bag and scribbled furiously.
I wasn’t even at Oxford and I felt inspired. Even on a crowded train, filled to the brim with passengers squeezed in like sardines in a tin.
We arrived in Oxford and I left the train, entering into the race for the Way Out and the taxi stand. From the taxi, he ancient spires, winding laneways and historic colleges flashed past. We drew up at a wooden gate and the driver told me this was Exeter College.
I had arrived.
The question was asked tonight at dinner whether it was the great writers who made Oxford great or if Oxford made the writers great. I think it may be both.
I’m inspired just by being here and imagining all the great writers who came before me. Tolkien and CS Lewis are two of many.
Tomorrow we begin classes. The hard work begins.
