Seven years after my first visit, I returned to discover what Oxford keeps behind its gates
Had apparition been allowed inside Hogwarts, I could have travelled directly from the Gloucester Cathedral cloister where Mrs Norris was found petrified to the hospital wing in Oxford’s Divinity School.
Unfortunately, it was not.
So I had to take a train.
Cinematic geography had transformed buildings in Gloucester and Oxford into different parts of the same castle. On screen, the journey needed no explanation: one scene ended in a Gothic corridor and another began elsewhere within Hogwarts. In the real world, the transition involved a railway station, luggage and a body already beginning to object to the itinerary.
By the time I reached Oxford on 5 October 2019, I had explored both Bristol and Gloucester. The Hogwarts corridor was still fresh in my mind, but most of the magic had worn off somewhere between trains. I remained determined to complete the plan, although I was no longer energetic enough to experience the final destination properly.
I walked through the centre, photographed the Radcliffe Camera, the Bridge of Sighs, college façades and autumn foliage, and occasionally looked through gates into courtyards I did not enter. Oxford displayed its most recognisable objects; I responded by pressing the shutter and continuing towards the next one.
I was staying at the Courtyard by Marriott Oxford City Centre, paid for with roughly 27,000 Marriott points. It was a comfortable, modern hotel in an excellent central location and entirely suitable for a short stay.
The hotel was not the problem.
I was simply exhausted.
Nor did I abandon Oxford at dawn. I walked through the city again the following morning, continuing past colleges, gardens and façades. On paper, I had given Oxford a reasonable amount of time. Fatigue, however, had reduced the quality of that time. I was still moving, but rarely stopping long enough to enter anything.
Cambridge was also waiting.
More precisely, the Virginia Woolf Suite at the University Arms was waiting.
The comparison was not entirely fair. The Courtyard was a perfectly good city hotel, while the University Arms occupied a more ambitious category altogether. And this was not merely a standard room in a grander building. It was a book-filled suite named after Virginia Woolf, overlooking Parker’s Piece and drawing on the writer whose Cambridge lectures eventually became A Room of One’s Own.
Collapsing in a comfortable Courtyard room and arriving at the Virginia Woolf Suite were not remotely the same prospect.
Even the railway journey revealed the slightly contradictory logic of the way I travelled at the time. I was keen to reach this rather fabulous suite, yet chose the longer route through London Marylebone because it was cheaper.
There is something wonderfully ridiculous about hurrying towards luxury while deliberately taking the slower train to save money.
Both decisions made perfect sense to me then.
The first visit was not a failure. The photographs remain attractive, and the October weather was in some respects better than during my return. Red foliage covered college walls, the Radcliffe Camera stood beneath a clear blue sky, and streets that are normally crowded appeared almost improbably calm.
But Oxford had largely remained on the other side of a gate.
I was still learning how to travel. I knew how to compare railway prices, organise a route and collect the principal sights. I had not yet understood that some cities resist being completed through efficient walking and a full camera roll.
Oxford is particularly good at creating that illusion. It can offer enough famous architecture in a single morning to make a visitor believe the city has been seen, while keeping almost everything that gives those buildings meaning safely behind closed doors.
At the time, I thought those gates were merely an inconvenience. Nearly seven years later, I would finally pass through some of them and discover what Oxford had kept on the other side: ceremonial grandeur, academic privilege, extraordinary institutional pettiness, a missing tortoise, fifty-seven urine samples and a college feud apparently too entertaining to resolve.
The second visit began under very different conditions.
I arrived from Bournemouth at around five in the afternoon and would leave the following day at three. On paper, the timetable was barely more generous than in 2019.
The difference was that I arrived rested.
I had come from the sea rather than from a day of forcing Bristol, Gloucester and Oxford into the same itinerary. I was fed, ready and no longer treating the city as an architectural appendix between two more important destinations.
This time, Oxford was the destination.
I returned to the same Courtyard at the same redemption rate, roughly 27,000 Marriott points. The hotel remained what it had been before: comfortable, modern and exceptionally convenient for exploring central Oxford. Its regular cash price, however, was sufficiently aggressive to make using points feel less like a loyalty benefit and more like financial self-defence.
The same hotel. The same number of points.
A completely different traveller.
This time, my Marriott status produced an upgrade to a room with a direct view of the tower of Oxford Castle.
This was not one of those hotel “views” that requires standing in a particular corner, pressing one’s face against the glass and applying considerable imagination. The tower stood directly opposite, rising above the lower buildings between the hotel and the castle complex. It dominated the window and made the room feel immediately connected to the city.
The view was genuinely impressive.
I had enough time to inspect the room, appreciate the castle and leave again. Unlike during the first visit, I would not allow the evening to disappear inside the hotel.
My first destination was Christ Church Cathedral.
Evensong was not new to me. I had already attended it in Cambridge and at Westminster Abbey, so I knew roughly what to expect: the procession, the choir, the careful separation between worship and tourism, and the slight uncertainty over whether every movement of one’s body was liturgically correct.
Christ Church nevertheless felt distinct.
During my first visit, the college had mostly been architecture observed from outside: towers, lawns and façades belonging to a world carefully protected from casual entry. This time I entered the cathedral while it was performing its original function rather than presenting itself as a historic attraction.
The service was restrained, sacred and highly polished. The choir provided the refinement I had expected, but the organ became the part that stayed with me.
It did not merely accompany the ceremony. It occupied the building, travelling through the stone and filling areas that architecture alone could not reach.
That first hour already corrected something from 2019. Oxford had stopped being purely visual. The strongest part of Christ Church was not a façade, a ceiling or another recognisable fragment of fictional Hogwarts, but sound.
After Evensong, I wanted to do something deliberately local and tried the Turf Tavern.
This was not an especially original idea.
Apparently every other visitor who had read that the Turf was historic, hidden and authentically Oxford had reached exactly the same conclusion. It was packed to the point where the distinction between atmosphere and physical compression had disappeared. There was no realistic prospect of finding a table without first developing a level of patience that hunger had already destroyed.
The menu made the failure easier to accept.
I had expected something more stubbornly traditional, perhaps the kind of British pub food that had resisted every recent fashion. Instead, modernity had taken considerable control. Nothing looked disastrous, but little justified fighting through a room full of tourists merely to prove that I had eaten somewhere supposedly local.
Perhaps it was fortunate that there was no space.
By then I was properly hungry and becoming less interested in authenticity than in obtaining dinner. I walked on without a convincing alternative and found The Ivy.
The Ivy Oxford Brasserie looked like the opposite of the Turf.
It was polished, colourful and consciously theatrical, part of a British restaurant group whose interiors are designed to make an ordinary meal feel like an occasion. Patterned floors, mirrors, art and vivid upholstery produced enough visual confidence to make one suspicious that the room might be doing more work than the kitchen.
Under different circumstances, I might have dismissed it as too calculated.
I had not planned to eat there. I entered because the Turf had been impossible and because hunger had reduced my willingness to continue researching.
It proved to be one of the best accidental decisions of the visit.
The dining room was stylish without becoming ridiculous, and the service understood the level of performance expected from the setting. More importantly, the food did not rely on the room to justify it.
I began with the heirloom tomato and watermelon salad.
The tomatoes were excellent, but the watermelon was the discovery.
Its cold sweetness cut through the acidity of the tomatoes and olives, while the pistachios and dressing added enough depth to prevent the dish from becoming merely refreshing. It was one of those combinations that sounded slightly suspicious before tasting it and completely obvious afterwards.
The watermelon was not a decorative novelty added for colour. It was the ingredient that turned a very good tomato salad into something I would remember.
The shepherd’s pie that followed was exactly the kind of food I had originally hoped to find in Oxford: recognisably British, comforting and satisfying, but prepared and presented with considerably more care than its name might suggest.
After failing to enter a supposedly historic tavern whose menu had drifted towards modern pub convention, I had found a more polished restaurant serving a better version of the kind of food I wanted.
The irony was useful. I had attempted to behave like a local and ended up compressed among tourists at the Turf. I then abandoned the search for authenticity, entered a restaurant group I had not intended to visit and ate one of the strongest meals of the trip.
By the end of the first evening, the second Oxford had already done more than the entire first visit. I had looked directly onto the castle from my room, listened to the organ at Christ Church and discovered The Ivy through a failed attempt to eat somewhere more “authentic”.
Oxford had begun behaving like somewhere I was staying, rather than somewhere I was processing.
The following morning began at Browns.
I had expected more from the setting. In my imagination, breakfast in Oxford required dark wood, academic eccentricity and at least one elderly professor silently disapproving of modern civilisation over a pot of tea.
Browns was more ordinary than that.
I ordered a full English breakfast, which provided the expected combination of eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, tomato, mushrooms and toast. It was competent rather than revelatory, but the food was not what remained with me.
The customers appeared to be almost entirely local, and many clearly knew one another. Conversations crossed between tables; people arrived and were greeted rather than merely seated. Browns had not provided the theatrical Oxford atmosphere I had imagined, but it offered something more convincing: a small community actually using the place.
I had expected a stage set and found a local breakfast room.
That was probably better.
I then joined a guided walking tour.
My initial expectations had been slightly unrealistic. I had assumed that an Oxford tour would include Duke Humfrey’s Library and perhaps two colleges. The library required a separate ticket and had been sold out for weeks, while the tour included only Balliol as a proper college interior.
Measured against that imaginary itinerary, I was initially disappointed.
Measured against what the tour actually delivered, it was very good.
The route gave structure to a city whose institutions can otherwise blur into an impressive collection of gates and stone façades. More importantly, the guide supplied Oxford with character. She knew the history, but she was even better when discussing grudges, vanity, academic privilege and stories that may have improved during centuries of repetition.
She was connected to Trinity College and made no attempt to pretend that this had left her neutral.
What Oxford kept behind its gates was not limited to chapels, dining halls and private gardens.
It also preserved grudges.
Our guide appeared to evaluate colleges using several criteria, the most important of which was the number of British prime ministers they had produced.
She counted them with the seriousness of a sports commentator presenting league standings. Academic achievements, architecture and centuries of institutional history all had their place, but prime ministers provided a remarkably convenient final metric.
Balliol and Trinity were neighbours and rivals, which gave her an excellent supply of material.
She treated Balliol’s claim to be Oxford’s oldest college with the kind of scepticism normally reserved for fraudulent insurance claims. According to her, Balliol had once presented itself too confidently as the oldest and had eventually been forced into the safer wording “one of the oldest”.
Oxford’s oldest colleges have developed several competing definitions of age, allowing more than one of them to win provided each chooses the correct starting point.
This is exactly the kind of dispute an ancient university should have: impossible to settle, maintained for centuries and conducted through carefully adjusted institutional wording.
The rivalry became considerably less dignified when she reached the practical jokes.
According to her version, Balliol students had broken into a Trinity office, stolen genuine college letterhead and used it to send new students official-looking instructions requiring urine samples for a fictitious medical examination.
Fifty-seven “jars of piss”, as she put it, were delivered directly to the dean’s office.
The accounts I later found reversed the direction of the attack, placing Trinity on the offensive and Balliol freshers on the receiving end. She had apparently misremembered who attacked whom, but not the magnificent result: fifty-seven samples generated by the authority of authentic stationery.
Place a sufficiently absurd instruction on the correct letterhead, and intelligent people will apparently comply.
Then came the livestock.
Students had supposedly released three sheep marked with the numbers one, two and four, leaving their opponents searching for a nonexistent number three. Variations of this story appear at schools and universities across the world, sometimes involving sheep, sometimes pigs and occasionally other animals with no interest in academic rivalry.
Whether Oxford created the prank, borrowed it or merely decided it sounded better when performed by people in gowns was not established.
Our guide did not appear troubled by the uncertainty.
There were also spikes intended to prevent students crossing between the colleges. According to her, they were remarkably easy to climb over, making them a perfect piece of Oxford architecture: visually authoritative, historically interesting and functionally rather questionable.
The annual tortoise race produced darker accusations.
Balliol’s racing tortoise, Rosa Luxemburg, had disappeared. Trinity was naturally suspected, although nobody had proved anything. Our guide—herself from Trinity—treated the absence of evidence as an irritating technicality and suggested, with suspicious satisfaction, that the tortoise might have ended up in a soup.
Her loyalty to Trinity apparently did not extend to ruling out tortoise murder.
By that point, Oxford’s academic hierarchy had been reduced to prime ministers, its history to contested wording and its inter-college relations to stolen stationery, phantom sheep and suspected tortoise soup.
The tour had become one of the best parts of the visit.
All Souls affected our guide differently.
The college has no conventional undergraduate population and admits only a tiny number of Examination Fellows through a famously demanding selection process. In her description, successful candidates entered a state of academic grace: time to research, generous institutional support and access to funds whenever the work justified them.
She spoke about it with the intensity of someone who had spent years imagining what she would research once ordinary financial limits disappeared.
By the end, a kidney no longer seemed completely beyond negotiation.
Merton received a less enthusiastic assessment. She described it as extremely traditional and, by implication, potentially rather dull. The future Japanese Emperor Naruhito had studied there, which suggested that it was sufficiently formal for almost any purpose.
Cambridge, in her version of university history, consisted essentially of Oxford’s breakaway rebels.
This was chronologically less nuanced than the full history of the two institutions, but much more satisfying when delivered during an Oxford tour.
At one point, someone had apparently chased an Archbishop of Canterbury through Oxford with a whip. By then, I had stopped trying to determine precisely where verified history ended and university folklore began.
One of the tour’s stronger themes was that Oxford’s supposedly pure Englishness is partly a successful illusion.
The city repeatedly borrows architectural authority from elsewhere, particularly Rome and Venice.
The Sheldonian Theatre borrows the form of an ancient Roman theatre and turns it into an unmistakably Oxford setting for university ceremony.
The building would become more important later, when I climbed to its cupola, but even from the street it showed how skilfully Oxford absorbs foreign references and makes them feel inevitable.
The Bridge of Sighs offered the Venetian counterpart.
It belongs to Hertford College and crosses New College Lane. Architecturally, it resembles Venice’s Rialto more closely than the actual Bridge of Sighs, but the more dramatic name won.
Oxford folklore then improved the structure further.
According to one persistent story, Hertford’s students had once been identified as the heaviest in Oxford, so the college closed the bridge and forced them to walk farther in an attempt to make them lose weight.
The story is false, and its proposed exercise programme does not even work properly: avoiding the bridge apparently involves fewer stairs rather than more.
It survives because Oxford folklore has never allowed logic to spoil a useful insult.
The Radcliffe Camera provided the clearest example of how differently I was now seeing familiar objects.
In 2019, it had been Oxford’s perfect photographic subject: circular, monumental and positioned within one of the city’s strongest architectural compositions.
This time I was more conscious that it was a working library.
The word camera originally meant a room. Behind the famous exterior are reading spaces, books and students using the building for a purpose more mundane and more interesting than decorating visitors’ photographs.
Our guide attributed its relatively limited windows to the historical window tax. Whether taxation explains the architecture quite as neatly as she suggested, it was exactly the kind of detail she enjoyed: grandeur shaped by financial avoidance.
Oxford’s monuments began to feel less like isolated attractions and more like parts of a functioning, occasionally absurd academic machine.
The Divinity School is among the interiors capable of making even an overexposed destination feel newly impressive.
Its fan-vaulted ceiling spreads overhead with such precision that the room seems simultaneously structural and decorative. Stone ribs multiply across the surface, meeting in carved bosses and producing an interior far more intricate than the building’s external walls suggest.
It has, inevitably, acquired a second life through Harry Potter.
On screen, it became the Hogwarts hospital wing—the Oxford destination I had theoretically been travelling towards from Gloucester nearly seven years earlier.
In 2019, however, I had never entered it.
The magical transition between two parts of Hogwarts had taken me a train journey and seven years.
Our guide described the Divinity School’s role during Oxford’s graduation ceremonies less reverently. When the formal ceremony takes place in the Sheldonian, the medieval hall effectively becomes a preparation room: a magnificent Gothic changing area for candidates arranging gowns and waiting to be processed into the theatre.
It was a useful reminder that institutions do not always use their greatest spaces with the solemnity outsiders expect.
Nearby, she condensed the career of Sir Thomas Bodley into the story of a man who spent decades travelling around Europe at other people’s expense before returning to rebuild the university library.
This was not the standard heroic version of Bodleian history, but it was efficient.
She also described requesting an English translation of the Iliad from the library and receiving a Danish one. A system containing millions of books can apparently still be defeated by a basic language requirement.
Duke Humfrey’s Library was the only major planned interior I failed to see. The relevant tours had sold out weeks in advance. This initially annoyed me, although our guide offered consolation by describing the library as a sauna.
Missing one of Oxford’s most famous rooms became easier to accept once I imagined standing inside it, dressed for summer and slowly being preserved alongside the manuscripts.
The omission no longer felt like failure. It had simply become unfinished business.
For a Trinity woman, actually leading us into Balliol appeared to border on sacrilege.
She had spent much of the tour questioning its claim to be Oxford’s oldest college, measuring its quality through prime ministers and describing generations of mutual hostility. Crossing the entrance now felt less like the final scheduled stop and more like a temporary incursion into enemy territory.
Inside, the jokes acquired architecture.
The Front Quad was compact, enclosed and immediately persuasive, with the chapel, Hall and college buildings arranged around a space that felt both intimate and ceremonial. Balliol stopped being merely the institution she had been insulting across Broad Street and became a real place in which people studied, ate and continued several centuries of carefully cultivated superiority.
Our guide conceded that its origin story was excellent.
John de Balliol’s dispute with the Bishop of Durham ended with Balliol being whipped and ordered to perform a substantial charitable act. His support for poor scholars developed into the college that still bears his name. His widow Dervorguilla then secured it with a permanent endowment and statutes, earning Balliol a rare moment of approval from our otherwise hostile Trinity guide.
Unlike the archbishop supposedly chased through Oxford with a whip in one of her less verifiable stories, the whipping of Balliol had survived contact with the historical record.
She clearly preferred university history when it involved senior clergy and corporal punishment.
The visit was not long, but Balliol may actually have been the more beautiful of the two colleges I explored properly the following day. Magdalen had more extensive grounds and greater variety, but Balliol’s quadrangle felt more architecturally coherent.
The Cambridge colleges I had seen years earlier still had an advantage, largely because their gardens had made a stronger impression on me. Oxford’s colleges seemed denser and more urban; Cambridge had allowed the landscape to participate more generously.
The comparison was necessarily tentative. I had seen far too little to settle a rivalry that had already survived several centuries without my assistance.
Balliol marked the end of the organised tour. From there, I continued towards Magdalen, where Oxford would become quieter, greener and considerably less dependent on accusations involving urine, livestock and medieval violence.
I no longer remembered exactly why I had chosen Magdalen over Oxford’s many alternatives, but reconstructing the decision was not difficult.
Magdalen is regularly described as one of Oxford’s largest and most beautiful colleges. Its appeal extends beyond cloisters, chapel and Great Tower into a deer park, the Water Meadow and Addison’s Walk. C. S. Lewis spent almost thirty years there as a Fellow and Tutor, and the walk is associated with his conversations with J. R. R. Tolkien about myth. Every May Morning, the college choir sings from the top of the Great Tower at six o’clock.
I had probably read some shortened version of “the most beautiful college in Oxford” and booked immediately.
For once, clickbait had directed me somewhere worthwhile.
When I arrived, I discovered that I was the only person who had booked the guided tour.
This was apparently not enough to justify conducting it. The fee was refunded, and I bought a standard admission ticket instead.
The arrangement was initially disappointing. After a morning spent following someone else’s carefully organised Oxford, I was suddenly inside Magdalen with no guide and no particularly intelligent plan.
I stood near the entrance for a moment, unsure which direction was supposed to produce the college I had paid to see.
Then a group of pupils passed through.
They looked as though they knew where they were going, which was already more than I could say for myself, so I followed them.
They led me into the dining hall.
It was an unexpectedly strong beginning. Long tables, dark wood and portraits transformed eating into part of the college’s institutional theatre. I had entered almost by accident, but the room immediately justified the decision to come.
After that, I stopped trying to reproduce a cancelled guided tour and simply wandered.
Magdalen unfolded through courtyards, chapel, gardens and water. The density of central Oxford loosened. Paths moved between buildings and planted areas, while the river and occasional punt introduced a softer landscape beyond the stone.
The chapel provided carved wood, stained glass and the expected solemnity, but the grounds were what distinguished Magdalen from Balliol. This was not merely a series of enclosed quadrangles. The college extended into meadow, water and long green walks, including Addison’s Walk.
I could understand why it was so often described as one of Oxford’s most beautiful colleges. Yet, if forced to choose based only on the interiors I saw that day, I might still give Balliol the advantage. Magdalen’s strength was not that every individual space was superior, but that the college gradually opened into a complete landscape.
The Cambridge colleges I remembered remained more immediately seductive, largely because of their gardens. Magdalen came closest to producing that effect in Oxford.
The cancelled tour had therefore worked in my favour. Instead of being led through another list of significant rooms, I had followed a group of pupils into the Hall and then allowed myself to get slightly lost.
It was the first time that day Oxford stopped explaining itself.
After Magdalen, I passed a barbershop and noticed that it was empty.
The decision to enter was spontaneous. I had not planned to dedicate part of a compressed Oxford itinerary to personal grooming. The opportunity simply appeared, and I had reached the point in the trip when both my hair and beard would benefit from professional intervention.
The barber did an excellent job.
Even more surprisingly, the price was comparable with what I would have paid in Rijeka. Oxford had managed to make a haircut feel financially reasonable, which was not an achievement I expected from a city capable of charging extraordinary amounts for a perfectly good Courtyard room.
The episode gave me a peculiar sense of temporary belonging.
Visiting attractions is a clearly defined tourist activity. Sitting in a local barbershop, discussing what should be done with one’s beard and then continuing through the city looking slightly more civilised feels closer to ordinary life.
It was hardly an initiation into Oxford society, but it did more for my sense of being in the city than another hurried photograph of a tower.
I celebrated the improved face at the Grand Café.
Its name was not its only ambitious claim. The café occupies a site associated with Oxford’s early coffee-house history and presents itself as England’s first coffee house, dating from around 1650. There was therefore genuine history behind the marketing.
I ordered a Victoria sponge.
I had heard that the cake was used as a basic test of both baker and oven, which was precisely why I chose it. Its apparent simplicity leaves little room for camouflage: the sponge has to rise evenly, remain light and provide the correct structure for jam and cream.
Mine passed.
The sponge was light, and the filling produced exactly the contrast I expected. It felt more specifically British than selecting some internationally interchangeable display-counter dessert.
The historical setting was real and the cake was good.
The room still felt less grand than its name had suggested.
The Grand Café turned out to be a historically significant café with an ambitious adjective.
The Sheldonian Theatre was the architectural highlight of the second day.
Inside, the room functions less like a conventional theatre than a ceremonial machine. Curved tiers of seating surround the central floor, while the painted ceiling turns the enclosed space into an imagined opening towards the sky.
The building was designed for university ceremonies, not drama, and still carries the atmosphere of an institution performing its own importance.
Oxford degree ceremonies preserve a remarkable quantity of Latin and ritual.
According to our guide, candidates bow nine times during the process. The more alarming detail, however, was practical: they had to recognise enough of the Latin formula to know when each bow was expected.
Receiving a modern university degree therefore still involved linguistic pattern recognition and carefully timed submission to medieval authority.
The climb to the cupola was easy. Our guide had compared it favourably with a church tower, but the stairs were straightforward enough that the warning proved unnecessary.
The reward was one of the best views of Oxford.
From street level, Oxford’s monuments appear sequentially. You walk around a corner and encounter a tower, dome or college façade.
From above, the city reveals how tightly those elements are compressed.
The Radcliffe Camera rises among roofs, spires and enclosed quadrangles. Buildings that had seemed independent become part of a dense academic landscape.
The view provided the familiar Oxford skyline but from a position that made the city newly legible. The famous objects were no longer isolated icons. They belonged to a system of courtyards, libraries, chapels and streets arranged within a surprisingly compact area.
Back in 2019, I had photographed many of the same structures without understanding their physical or institutional relationships.
The cupola did not make me an expert, but it finally gave the city a coherent shape.
The History of Science Museum offered a different kind of Oxford relic.
Einstein’s blackboard is exactly what its name suggests: a blackboard carrying equations written during one of his Oxford lectures.
Without context, it is chalk on a dark surface.
With the correct name attached, it becomes one of the museum’s most famous objects.
The story told to us involved a failure to warn the cleaners. One board was erased, and someone apparently had to run to prevent the surviving example from meeting the same practical fate.
The dramatic version may have improved through repetition, but the central tension is perfect: scientific history almost defeated by someone efficiently doing their job.
There is something reassuring about an institution capable of preserving medieval manuscripts and historic scientific instruments nearly losing Einstein’s equations because nobody told the cleaning staff.
As a mathematician, I could have pretended to stand before the board in silent communion with genius.
In reality, what interested me most was the transformation of an ordinary working surface into a relic. The equations matter, but so do the chalk, the handwriting and the evidence that the abstract work once occupied a physical room.
Oxford is very good at this.
It takes the ordinary objects of academic life—books, desks, gowns and blackboards—and allows time to turn them into heritage.
The real climax of Oxford was not the cathedral, the college interiors, the panorama or Einstein’s blackboard.
It was Blackwell’s.
I had expected to enjoy the famous bookshop.
I had not expected to struggle to leave.
The Norrington Room spreads beneath street level into a large, open bookselling space. From above, the arrangement of shelves, tables and reading areas immediately creates the sense that the visit could become dangerous.
Not dangerous in any meaningful physical sense, but dangerous to the schedule, luggage allowance and remaining balance on a credit card.
The mathematics section caused the greatest damage, but I had already been distracted by history, architecture, travel, literature and shelves of books I had not known I needed until I saw them.
Blackwell’s did not feel like a specialist pilgrimage in which I marched directly towards mathematics and ignored everything else. It felt like an environment designed to delay departure.
Every subject offered another possible diversion.
Mathematics and statistics merely ensured that the delay became critical.
There were books I recognised, books I had used, books I had considered using and books whose existence briefly made me reconsider parts of my teaching. Statistics occupied its own territory. Titles ranged from serious reference works to attempts at making mathematics socially acceptable.
The Enjoyment of Math stood prominently on one shelf, its title confident enough to suggest that enjoyment could be obtained simply by purchasing the correct volume.
I photographed shelves with the enthusiasm other people reserve for royal palaces.
But I also wandered through subjects with no direct professional justification at all, which is usually how a good bookshop creates the most expensive problems. Every time I prepared to move towards the exit, another section appeared.
The shop also provided one of the day’s best visual jokes.
A book about marriage had been placed beside a book about divorce, the sequence either accidental or the work of an employee with an admirably concise understanding of narrative structure.
Oxford had spent centuries constructing towers, chapels, dining halls and ceremonial rooms designed to impress visitors.
The place that finally defeated my timetable was a bookshop.
That reaction also clarified why the second visit felt so different.
I was no longer collecting generic attractions. I had found a part of Oxford that connected directly with my own academic life, but was broad enough to keep pulling me beyond it. Blackwell’s was not important simply because it was famous or large. It was a place where curiosity required no explanation.
Leaving required discipline I had not known I possessed.
The first Oxford visit had ended with the longer but cheaper route into London Marylebone. Cost mattered, and the destination beyond London was Cambridge.
This time, Paddington made more sense because I was continuing towards Heathrow for a flight to Aberdeen.
Before the airport, I stopped in London for Madame Tussauds. Moving directly from Einstein’s surviving chalk and Oxford’s historic academic spaces to carefully maintained wax versions of celebrities was a dramatic adjustment in cultural register.
The Heathrow Express then performed exactly as advertised: fast, simple and genuinely convenient.
British transport does not always inspire uncomplicated praise, so it deserves recognition when it works this well.
At Heathrow, Oxford became the previous stage of a longer journey.
Aberdeen was next.
But the departure felt different from 2019.
The first time, I had left with a respectable collection of photographs and the assumption that Oxford had been completed.
The second time, I left with a specific list of unfinished business.
I do not now claim to know Oxford comprehensively.
My second visit lasted only from late afternoon until three the following day. Entire institutions remained inaccessible. Duke Humfrey’s Library was sold out. Most colleges received no more than an exterior glance, and even Magdalen deserved considerably more time than I gave it.
Yet twenty-two hours were enough to turn Oxford from a city I recognised into one I had begun to understand.
What the city kept behind its gates was not simply more beautiful architecture. It was a living collection of rituals, loyalties, privileges, rivalries and stories—some documented, some dubious and some far too good for anyone to risk disproving.
I finally accumulated experiences rather than façades: the castle tower framed by the hotel window, the organ at Christ Church, watermelon transforming a tomato salad, locals greeting one another over breakfast at Browns, a Trinity guide accusing her neighbours of tortoise murder, the sacrilegious crossing into Balliol, an unplanned route through Magdalen, a spontaneous haircut, a view across the rooftops and an unreasonable amount of happiness inside a bookshop.
The first visit showed me what Oxford looked like.
The second showed me what it had been keeping from me.
I did not leave wanting to move there. Oxford’s beauty does not erase its sense of institutional enclosure, social performance and historical privilege. Living inside that machinery would be very different from spending a day admiring it.
A conference, however, would be another matter.
Several days with an academic reason to be in Oxford, enough time to explore one or two colleges properly and a legitimate excuse to return to Blackwell’s would be close to ideal.
I continued towards Heathrow and Aberdeen, but for the first time I was already thinking about Oxford not as somewhere I had visited, but as somewhere I had a reason to return to.
Oxford rewards preparation more than improvisation. Some of its most interesting interiors are easy to miss, while others require advance booking.
Compare both railway routes from London before buying a ticket. Great Western Railway runs from Paddington and is usually the faster option, with direct journeys taking around an hour and the quickest services completing the trip in just over fifty minutes. Chiltern Railways leaves from Marylebone and normally takes longer—approximately seventy to eighty minutes—but its operator-specific Advance tickets can be considerably cheaper. Chiltern currently advertises single fares from £5.40.
The choice is therefore not simply between two London stations. It is often a direct exchange between money and time: pay more for the faster GWR service, or spend another twenty or thirty minutes on the Chiltern train and keep the difference for Oxford. Prices vary sharply according to the departure and how early the ticket is purchased, so it is worth comparing both routes rather than automatically choosing Paddington.
Make sure the destination is Oxford, not Oxford Parkway. Oxford station is on the edge of the historic centre, with most central colleges approximately ten to fifteen minutes away on foot.
Book the Bodleian Library early. Access to Duke Humfrey’s Library is limited, and the more complete tours can sell out weeks ahead. The Divinity School is easier to visit, but it is still worth checking opening times before arriving.
Do not assume that every college follows the same schedule. Opening hours, admission rules and private events vary considerably. A college that appears open online may still be closed to visitors, while another may allow independent entry without a tour.
A guided walking tour is useful even if you have visited Oxford before. The architecture is easy to admire alone, but the rivalries, traditions and institutional absurdities are what make the colleges memorable.
Magdalen College deserves time rather than a hurried stop. The grounds extend well beyond the main quadrangles, with gardens, water and long paths that can easily occupy more than an hour.
The Sheldonian Theatre is worth entering for the view. The climb to the cupola is short and manageable, and the panorama helps explain how tightly the university, colleges and city are woven together.
Leave room for Blackwell’s. The main shop on Broad Street is much larger than it first appears, particularly once you reach the underground Norrington Room. Anyone interested in academic books could lose a dangerous amount of time there.
Oxford works well without a car. The historic centre is compact and best explored on foot. Comfortable shoes matter more than an ambitious transport plan.
For a short visit, I would prioritise one guided tour, one college explored independently, the Bodleian or Divinity School, the Sheldonian view and enough unstructured time to wander. Trying to enter every college would produce a longer list, but probably a less memorable Oxford.
