The blog was ready for a change. This wallpaper looks a bit garish now, but this looks vaguely Bloomsburyish.
Mid-February already, and we’re in fifth week. Shockingly, this means only three more weeks until the Easter vacation and Ireland, a house in the backwater of Killarney. The weather has been suitably miserable. Hilary is the dark term. Everyone is willing to hunker down in their rooms until Trinity, which begins in April around the time of the Royal Wedding. I haven’t done much aside from work (and avoid it by walking up and down the stairs). Reading Chaucer has led to Thomas Hoccleve and his Marian lyrics. With scattered showers of literary theory every odd Thursday. I may throw over everything in favour of Brighton Rock.
The snowdrops are out, and that means spring. (Does it?) Morning and evening birds sing. They weren’t there two weeks ago.
Last Saturday night I found I had grown restless and ached to move about. Leaving college with three friends, we walked to Port Meadow just before ten and crossed onto it while the moon and the stars were still out. Cassiopeia was visible, and the Plough (the Big Dipper). Horses loomed next to the stile we crossed onto the meadow, just on the edge of Jericho, only fifteen minutes on foot from the center of town. They watched us warily, and moved heavily like rhinos. Over the bridge; the Cherwell at night; the canal boats moored, several of them with lights on behind frowsy curtains; the river life. We stopped at the Perch for a pint, returned as the clouds washed over, and, stiff-legged, took a chocolate digestible before bed.
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