Escapism

Everybody needs a little escapism from the more unpleasant, or even simply banal, elements of their life from time to time. Normally, when I want to escape into an alternative reality, I do one of the following:
1. Bake. Particularly recipes with an unnecessary number of steps. I'm not one for this all-in-one malarkey.
2. Read Country Living. Am I worried that I share the interests of a middle aged farmer's wife? Perhaps. Do I dream of living in a grade II listed farm house with a dog called Potato, a roaring fire and a local supply of apples nevertheless? Yes.
3. Dance. Zumba, ballet, aerobics - whatever. Can't.get.enough of those endorphins.

However, when at university (where perhaps the drawbacks of reality hit me harder than elsewhere) I have no kitchen, would be mortified to be seen with CL in my shopping basket in the social hub that is the local Sainsburys and know of no local dance classes.

So, today, I got up around 6 and hopped on my bike and with a some hastily scribbled down directions set off on a long ride. Fool. What was I thinking? I began to resent myself when wondering what on earth I had meant by 'G Lane' or 'take a kind of small right.' I positively loathed my former self when I accidentally ended up on a dual carriage way. Luckily, after a hasty recourse to the side of the road, I escaped with my life and made it back home.

Despite the dramatics of the ride and the intellectual rigour needed to decode my sparse notes, I forgot my normal world for a couple of hours, enjoying the view from Boar's Hill over the cityscape of Oxford and generally taking overly romantic pictures.

Now, you have the almost unutterable pleasure of two photos!

I was torn between my love of old maps (Boar's Hill in 1919) ....

and the sheer narcissistic pleasure of my own photo (a casual field in 2011)

The Bookshop

The title of this post is somewhat ambiguous: I have both been working in a bookshop and have just finished yet another of Penelope Fitzgerald's novels, coincidentally entitled The Bookshop. However, these two are not wholly unconnected as I have found my lovely, local bookshop to be the perfect place to get really stuck into a book: quiet, without distractions and with enough hypothetical judgement from the customers that you feel like you really need to read rather than daydream!

Obviously I spend the majority of my day during term time reading but normally either in Latin, Greek and even, on the odd occasion, French and German (apparently there are no English philologists!). Tacitus' Annals aren't really my ideal bed time reading, however devoted to my subject I may be. Most of the time, I'm simply too drained or too busy to read for pleasure. I had slightly forgotten just how lovely it is to be completely caught up in a book, so utterly hooked that you accidentally awake in the morning to find the light still on and a book on your face (ahem, no I'm definitely not speaking from personal experience...)

Since I love sharing good finds, I'll end with a couple of favourites for your perusal!

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. An amazing and fairly rare combination of a tightly constructed plot and excellent writing which manages to be poetic, humorous and yet completely true. I was totally gripped, though must admit that towards the close I had started to tire of the endless gothic cliffhangers. So, whilst I've heard that The Angel's Game is equally fabulous I may need to restrain myself until next vac to launch back into such melodrama!

Bluestockings by Jane Robinson. A very inspiring book about women's fight for university education. I was amazed at how recent a struggle it was, continuing even after the cataclysmic World Wars. I was also shocked by the ridiculous preconceptions about women's mental capabilities (apparently the activity of a woman's mind was thought to be inversely proportional to her sanity and even her fertility!) and what personal sacrifices were made for this cause. A definite reminder not to take my freedom and privilege for granted.

The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald was as late a find for me as writing seemed to have been for the author who discovered her talent rather late on in life. Her novels are petite and delicate but wonderful. I've read a fair few now including The Beginning of Spring (an evocative portrayal of Moscow at the turn of the century) and The Gates of Angels (an interesting deliberation on love, faith and science) but this was by far my favourite. The petty injustices suffered by Florence Green and the despondent finale had me completely enraptured.