Hello, It’s Me

As I write this, I am 11,278m in the air, somewhere in the airspace between Singapore and Malaysia, en route back to New Zealand. I am now officially two terms down at Oxford, and it’s safe to say, Hilary Term (i.e. the one that has just finished) was, to put it simply, utter insanity. I don’t think I’ve caught my breath yet, if I’m honest. In some ways, the madness was no worse than last term – I haven’t attempted to cram any further commitments into my calendar (mostly because that is now logistically impossible. Ha.) but because almost everything I am doing suddenly kicked up a notch. Rather than have eight weeks to write a 5,000 word essay (worth 20% of my overall Masters’ grade), I now had to submit a 7,500 essay (worth 30% of my overall Masters’ grade; #NoPressure), in half that time. In other words, the libraries and I took our relationship status to the next level. Rowing training went from two water outings a week to three, when the river wasn’t “red flagged” (i.e. too high and/or with too fast a stream to be safe to row on – the incessant winter rain is usually to blame), plus at least two gym sessions (on the erg machines. Aka, The World’s Most Sadistic Pieces of Gym Equipment), all in preparation for our racing competition in 6^th Week, Torpids. Torpids, a four day regatta, is a “bumps race”, whereby rather than race side-by-side, because the River Isis is too narrow, the 12 boats in each division (there are six) start staggered, a boat and a half length apart, with the aim of the race being to “bump” the boat racing in front of you. Doing so means you then take that boat’s starting position in the next day’s race; the ultimate goal being to “bump” your way to become top of your division, which allows you the chance to row into the division above, and eventually, attain “Head of the River” (i.e. the “fastest” boat on the river). The division rankings are cumulative, meaning last year’s rankings determined this year’s initial starting line-ups, and the final rankings for this year’s racing will determine next year’s starting orders. Of course, two days before Torpids was due to start, my coccyx (aka, my tailbone) decided it couldn’t handle the pressure (literally), and, having successfully bruised itself, also proceeded to pinch the sciatic nerves in both my legs. Needless to say, suffering more than a little déjà vu (remember this incident, last regatta?), I was forced to withdraw from racing, and instead watch all the excitement from the banks of the river.

Alongside rowing, and study, I have also continued writing for Oxford Culture Review, with some weeks seeing me review multiple events at a time, including, most spectacularly, two ballets in two days. Then there were the other research projects I am involved with, frequent and consistent archival research visits (including my personal favourite of this term: Magdalen College. Their archives are up a medieval tower. Naturally.), and, of course, socialising, including three “exchange” or “swap” formal dinners, at St Catherine’s, Keble and Pembroke Colleges, as well as two special weekend visits, from my friends Henriette and Sabrina, who I met while on exchange in Glasgow. One of the nicest things about having visitors (besides the visitors themselves) is getting to re-examine Oxford through their eyes. Often, with the madness studying here demands, it can be easy to lose sight of how spectacular Oxford is – there is a reason it is known as the City of Dreaming Spires. You only have to look up as you walk to appreciate how extraordinary the architecture, and the history of the city, are.

Then, there was the two day trip to Manchester, right before I flew out, to see Adele in concert (did anyone get the reference in the title?). I will sum that experience up with a single adjective: phenomenal. The second Adele finished singing, I wanted the entire concert to begin again. Her tickets were notoriously difficult to get hold of, and with the London concerts taking place while I am back in New Zealand, we decided we’d best not chance being picky, and go wherever we succeeded in finding tickets (it was a bit like finding a Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory): that happened to Manchester. Having been decidedly distracted by the chaos of the previous few weeks, I didn’t have the chance to form any expectations of Manchester, and I found myself taken aback by how quickly I fell for its industrial charms. Of all the cities in England, it is Manchester which is typically heralded as the city of the working class. When the Industrial Revolution struck, Manchester exploded: it became a hive of industry, with the city centre almost dominated by large-scale factories (particularly textile). As goods production has become less localised, Manchester has evolved, with many of its original industrial buildings having undergone modernist renovations, giving them a new lease on life – the old Corn Exchange, for example, is now an upmarket food “court”. Alongside it’s beautifully dichotomous architecture, and fascinating history, Manchester turned out house excellent museums, libraries which rival Oxford in terms of their beauty (see, for example, the John Rylands and Central Libraries) and more than its fair share of art galleries. Add to this its ease of accessibility (it has both train and tram networks, and it is very easy to walk), and the entirely unexpected, but spectacular food scene (we managed to cover at least five different cuisines whilst there), and suddenly, so delighted was I with Manchester’s charms, I was a little sad to leave.

Now, with only one term to go, I’m left trying to assess how I feel about Oxford. I’ve spoken before about Oxford being a bubble, a world unto itself. That much hasn’t changed. But the longer I live here, the more I find myself integrated into that bubble, having conversations, engaging in activities, undertaking tasks that outside of Oxford, have little or no relevance. The notion of leaving this, then, is a little strange – my way of life has been altered, and it will take some readjustment to return this to a non-Oxford state. While Oxford is chaotic – in every sense of the word – and exhausting, it is also indescribably thrilling. It challenges you, makes you question yourself, your limits, and your preconceived ideas. It demands that you embrace its traditions and history, while it also encourages you to create your own. It pushes your intellectual capabilities – I’m reading more books per week than I ever have – and in so doing, it stimulates your progression and development. To say that I am caught up in Oxford wouldn’t be entirely untrue, and the fact I am likely to have to leave this all soon is more than a little bittersweet.

However, thankfully there is still another term to undergo before than. Perhaps, I might feel differently after another eight weeks of insanity. Watch this space. For now, it’s time for me to leave Oxford, however temporarily, and return to Kiwiland. I can’t wait.

 

Ash x

 

Oxford’s Dreaming Spires, viewed from the rooftop of the Weston Library.

The interior of the upper reading room at the John Rylands Library, Manchester.

All Souls College, with the Radcliffe Camera in the background.

New College. These cloisters, and that tree, feature in the Harry Potter films (most memorably in this scene from the Goblet of Fire).

Stained glass, Magdalen College Chapel.

Holywell Street, Oxford.

St John’s College.

View from the steps of the Dining Hall, Balliol College.

Dining Hall, Balliol College.

Magdalen College.

Chapel, Keble College.

Keble College’s Dining Hall.

Adele. And the 21,000 other people who shared the night with us.

Manchester Central Library.

Manchester Canal Area.

Manchester Town Hall.

Adeeeeeele (!!!).

Sandwich Time

So apparently I looked away for a second, and not only is it 2016 (let’s not think about that), it’s also February (i.e., the second month of the year). I am almost halfway through my Masters, and yet, it feels as if it has only been weeks, not months, since I last set foot in New Zealand (well, minus the Facebook pictures of sunshine and beaches I keep seeing. Aka, reminders of what I am missing.). I am currently in the midst of Hilary Term here at Oxford – i.e., the ‘Sandwich Term’, the term which sandwiches Michaelmas (i.e., first term of the academic year, and the one before Christmas) and Trinity (i.e., last term of the academic year, and the one before summer break). Hilary Term, I have been told, is a strange one: people tend to socialise less, hibernate more, and generally wander around with a perpetual look of dissatisfaction that it’s only Third Week, and still winter (= still raining.).
Having never had a ‘sandwich term’ (I’m used to semesters, i.e. two terms a year), I’m finding I don’t share the same disdain for Hilary. Perhaps it’s because I’m still in the Oxford bubble. Or, perhaps it’s because I am increasingly aware that once this term concludes, I will have only another eight weeks of teaching, and I will have finished. And quite frankly, that thought is terrifying. Not just because my time at Oxford will be over (and, right now, I am enjoying it far too much), but because that means I have to make decisions. About what to do. Where to live. Whether I follow my head, or my heart. But for now, that’s a while away, so allow me to put my head in the sand, and distract myself (and you) by detailing a little what I have been up to for the past few weeks.

Post-Norway, I spent Christmas in London with Petroy, and New Years’ in Edinburgh (still with Petroy, plus a couple of other pretty cool people. Think: three extra Kiwis and a Frenchman. No, that’s not the start of a joke.). Following this sweet, but too-short Scottish sojourn (sidenote: Scotland. I miss you.) it was back to London for another week (with a Peta, but now less a Troy, because apparently the Kiwi summer was calling. Whatevs, T-Man.) where my days were occupied with a spot of touring, a delightful day trip to Cambridge, and some research in the archives of the Imperial War Museum and London School of Economics (LSE). So in all in all, a pretty casual break… By Oxford standards.

Upon my return to Oxford, chaos set in, as, in true Ashlee-style, I attempted to juggle interning for a week (at The Story Museum. Which is pretty darn cool. Think: a museum dedicated to children’s stories. It includes a Narnian wardrobe, complete with a snow-covered sleigh and forest.) with the demands of my multiple assignments, which were all due at noon, the following Monday. With my sanity almost intact, I’m now back to a normal (i.e. just insane, not actually manic) daily pace. You know, where I juggle rowing, study, volunteering, formal dinners, seminars, archive visits, research, writing. The usual. Oxford standards, remember?

This term looks set to be just as busy as the last – in just over three weeks’ time is Torpids, our rowing regatta for this term (sidenote: remember when I said I couldn’t feel my legs from training last term? That was a lie. I didn’t know what it meant train so much, your muscles never stop aching…); before then, I already have four formal dinners to attend, two deadlines to meet, and, you know, sleep to be had. Let’s just say, the calendar’s not going to be losing its rainbow colour-coordination anytime soon. Which is fine by me. Oxford may be many things, and it may be perceived to be many more, but for most of us here, it’s our own pot of gold. Most of the time.

 

Until next time (likely post-Torpids. Once I can type again. Ha.),

Ash x

 

The University of Glasgow. Aka, my original UK stomping ground.

The River Isis, with some of the college boathouses in the background.

St John’s College, University of Cambridge. Enough said.

Part of the River Thames, where I run (it’s on the way to the River Isis).

St Peter’s College at twilight.

The Imperial War Museum, London.

The back of St Peter’s College, viewed from New Inn Hall Street – the building on the right is the side of the Dining Hall.

The lights of Edinburgh, viewed from Carlton Hill.

My Christmas croissants. Fresh outta the oven.

Edinburgh Castle.

 

 

I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE: HEI, TROMSØ

I could have used this past week to study, to research, to intern (more on that later). But, when two of your favourite Kiwis ask you to accompany them to Tromsø, Norway, you don’t hesitate to accept. After all, how often do you get the chance to visit the northernmost city in the world? While Tromsø (pronounced “Trom-so”) is famed for many things (including a reputation as being the ‘Little Paris’ of Scandinavia during the nineteenth century), the most obvious draw to this Arctic city is, of course, the Northern Lights (i.e. the one thing on everyone’s bucket list). But, before I reveal how successful Peta, Troy (hereafter known as “Petroy” when referred to collectively. This is their unofficial-official couple name. For which I cannot take credit.) and I were in our quest to tick this off our own lists, allow me to explain the slight detour we found ourselves on as we attempted to reach Tromsø.

We flew out of London Gatwick Airport Monday afternoon, intending to land in Tromsø around 7pm, Norwegian time. As usually happens when one travels, our plans went awry, when, a half hour from landing, we were informed that due to a severe (and this was a Norwegian standard of severe) snow storm, we were unable to land in Tromsø. Okaaayyyy. Cue an unexpected landing in Bodø (pronounced “Bo-da”) where we were lucky enough to spent two hours bonding with each other, and our fellow passengers, as we sat on the tarmac of Bodø Airport, waiting to hear our “Plan B”. To cut a long story short, we eventually found ourselves arriving at a hotel in Oslo around 1am Norwegian time, and after a very short sleep (but an excellent buffet breakfast. Which almost made up for the EIGHT HOURS we had spent sitting in the plane the previous day…), we were back aboard our plane, Tromsø bound.

This time around, we succeeded in landing, and we arrived around 2:30pm, where we were greeted by complete darkness, and tropical temperature of -4 degrees. Making our way to our accommodation for the next three nights, the utterly delightful Old Red Apartments (run by the equally delightful Arne and his wife. Arne, by the way, looked like a Norwergian Jack Sparrow, sans dreadlocks. He even had a sparrow tattoo.), we quickly deposited our luggage, layered up, and set out to brave the Tromsø afternoon. As we walked (in snow two feet deep. On the “good” roads.), it began to snow, and despite the cold, and gradual numbing of our faces, it soon become apparent Tromsø was one cool city (no pun intended. Ha.). As we made our way to dinner (at a seventies rock-themed burger joint recommended by Arne (of course!) called Blårock (“Bluerock”) Cafe), we began to realize the reports we’d received of last night’s snow storm had, in fact, erred on the side of caution: snow wasn’t just all over the ground, or the roofs, it was also up the side of buildings, on traffic lights, and halfway up parked cars. See Exhibit A, below.

Wednesday morning was welcomed in with more snow, a sleep in for some (hint: it wasn’t the Masters’ student), work for others (clue: university waits for no one) and, surprise, surprise, a glimmer of sunlight. And by glimmer, I mean enough to realize Tromsø is actually surrounded by snow-covered mountains, and is, in fact, even more stunning that it first appeared. After homemade soup for lunch (because the one downside to Norway is how expensive eating out can be) we ventured out for more exploring, stopping at the Cathedral (below), the Polarmuseet (Polar Museum. Fun fact: it’s possible to get lost in the Arctic for nine months and survive. How? By building your own hut, not undressing, ever, and eating seal, of course), the “Legoloft” (i.e. a second hand book shop blended with a comic book/Lego store. It was alternatively fabulous), and the supermarket (one of us was demanding “Knekkebrøod, or Norwegian crackerbread). After stopping for a quite bite to eat, we made our way towards our biggest adventure on our agenda: our Northern Lights tour.

For those of you who read the blog last year, you’ll remember I went on a Northern Lights tour while in Reykjavik, Iceland. This experience could not have been more different. To begin, our mode of transport was not a well-insulated bus, but a seven-seater van, with a door that didn’t quite shut properly. Then there was our tour guide, the 6’6”, dreadlocked Italian named Antonio. Finally, there was the tour itself. Sure, we could have driven up any nearby mountain, and proceeded to stare at the sky for a few hours (á la Reykjavik). Or, we could drive 30km away from the Finnish border (i.e. 2.5 hours from Tromsø), park in the middle of a forest, where the only sounds are the ones we make, and the only lights (beside our own) are the stars. Add in the fire we built, the marshmallows we toasted, the Norwegian “brown cheese” (it’s caramelised!) and grapes we ate, and the tea we drank as we sat around waiting for the Northern Lights to show, and it all sounds rather idyllic. Don’t mistake me, it was, up until I began to loose feeling in my toes, because it was MINUS FORTEEN DEGREES on the mountain, and my two layers of socks (one of which was possum fur, i.e. legit), two layers of pants, three layers of tops + a coat, two layers of hats, two layers of gloves, oh, and my SNOWSUIT were not enough to keep me even close to warm. Yeeeaaahhh. Scandinavian blood I do not possess.

Unfortunately, as wonderful as this experience was (just being in such an isolated setting was an experience in of itself), the Lights didn’t want to play ball, and although we saw them, it was only briefly, and very faintly. Feeling like we couldn’t complain too much, as that counted for something (also, I forgot to mention we had seen them FROM THE PLANE as we flew towards Tromsø. The first time. Pre-detour. Sidenote: IT WAS AMAZING.), we finally fell into bed at 3am, tired, cold, happy, and amused that we had discovered Northern Lights hunting was not a sustainable career for at least one of us (hint: it wasn’t the soldier who didn’t wear gloves. Or a snowsuit even. UGH. Showoff.).

Thursday brought no snow, but rather, a bright, clear and cold (of course. It’s still Norway) sky. Deciding this was the perfect kind of weather for photos, we spent the morning meandering around the city centre, still revealing (at least, the most easily amused of us was. I.e., me…) in the snow which surrounded us. Of course, even after -14 degrees, -7 does get to one after a while, and we eventually retreated indoors to spent the afternoon working (me), watching a film (Petroy) and eating our weight in soup (all three). As we later began layering up to head out to enjoy our last dinner in Tromsø, we instead managed to find ourselves being driven up to a local viewing point by Arne, who had come knocking on our door to inform us that he had seen the Northern Lights as he drove home from work (not uncommon in Tromsø!). Directing us to a park largely obscured from the lights of the city, we stood watching the sky for almost an hour, as the Lights finally decided to grace us with their presence. They weren’t the brightest, but they were more discernible than the night before, and if we looked closely, we could even see them moving. Once again, our faces began to protest at the length of exposure they were receiving to the Tromsø winter air, and so we began to make our way back into town for dinner. At this moment, our Norwegian adventure took a turn for the dramatic, in the best way possible. Suddenly, entirely unexpectedly, the sky in front of us lit up with Northern Lights, with such intensity, even my iPhone managed to capture it (see below!). Utterly awed, Peta and I may have soon began jumping up and down as we realized the Lights weren’t just properly visible, but that they were “dancing”, a rare phenomenon. To say our trip was made would be an understatement: when we finally continued on (the Lights hung around for while), we were all grinning like Cheshire Cats, while Peta and I were sporting spectacular bruises, from the force with which we’d hit each other in excitement (sorry, Pete.).

Troy, being the avid photographer he is, wanted to venture back out once he’d eaten. With a numb face, and tingling toes, Peta and I felt it best we politely decline, least we give ourselves hypothermia. Instead, while Troy hunted more lights, we spent the remainder of our night doing what the two of us do best – eating, enjoying a three-course meal (and each other’s company) at Kitchen & Table, a restaurant in The Clarion: The Edge Hotel, which had a “Manhattan-style” menu made with local Arctic ingredients. It was, hands down, one of the most delicious, and unusual, meals I have had in a while.

As I write this (and apologises for how lengthy it is!) We are winging our way back to London, looking forward to only needing one pair of socks in our shoes, but equally sad we are leaving Norway behind. Tromsø turned out to be even more exciting than any of us anticipated, and it is easily the kind of place one could return to, be it winter or summer (ha). The people, the scenery, the food all made Tromsø feel as if were a home we didn’t even realise we had, until we visited. There are few places in the world where you can simultaneously feel as if you have ventured to another planet entirely (i.e. one completely removed from your normal reality), and yet, when you go to leave, you realise there are few things you’d like to do more than just stay a little longer. Petroy, thank you for allowing me to tag along, and third wheel your trip. And for constantly plying me with additional layers of clothing.

Tromsø, you were an utter delight. See you again, soon.

 

Ash x

 

PS. As the next blog post will be after Christmas, Merry Christmas to you all. May you eat far too much, drink slightly less, and enjoy the company of whoever you are sharing your day with.

 

The Polaria (Tromsø Arctic Aquarium). This is famed for its unique exterior architecture.

Tromsø Cathedral, being snowed upon.

Tromsø city centre, complete with a giant Christmas tree, and mounds of fresh snow. Naturally.

Tromsø at twilight.

Tromsø city centre, complete with SNOW.

View towards the centre of Tromsø, taken from the Polaria.

Evidence of Monday night’s snow storm.

The view from the plane as we flew from Oslo towards Tromsø.

Annnnd: NORTHERN LIGHTS!

Annnddd: NORTHERN LIGHTS!

The view from our apartment.

Peta and me in the streets of Tromsø.

This is the definition of being “snowed under”.

The track we took to get to our Tromsø Northern Lights view point.

Me, in front of the Old Red Apartments, getting waaaaay too excited about the snow.

Petroy and I attempting to entertain ourselves as we waited on the tarmac of Bodø Airport. 

  

Circus Training

If the title of this post is a little confusing, allow me to explain. I’ve described life in Oxford as being akin to the Rabbit Hole in Alice in Wonderland. And while this hasn’t changed, life here is also a little like a circus, in which your ability to perform (in whatever capacity) is dependent upon your ability to juggle as many things as you can, as often as you can. Terms here are only eight weeks long, and yet, the amount you cram into this time period feels more like four months’ worth of activity, not two. Oxford definitely marches to the beat of its own drum, and while that rhythm is undoubtedly an experience, it takes a little while to properly feel in its groove.

And so, here I am, nine weeks down, still learning Oxford’s rhythm, still undertaking my circus training. In some ways, I doubt I’ll ever succeed in feeling on top of everything, but that’s not a feeling unique to Oxford. Most of us are quite good at being unable to say no, at placing too many expectations upon ourselves, and what we can achieve (I know, Mama…). The danger in a place like Oxford is that it can be easy to get swept up in the phenomenal opportunities being presented, without stopping to think whether you have the time, or energy (!) to spare. And so you add to the things you are juggling, and you hope, as more pile on, nothing manages to fall.

Characteristically, I admittedly get a slight thrill from the challenge of seeing how much I can juggle, and in a fashion typical of me, I’ve taken on more than I possibly should have. While the reality of so juggling so many things has usually only required me to be more organised than usual (hello, colour-coordinated calendar), there have been a few times where I have questioned my own (in)sanity. Thankfully, these are the exception, rather than the rule, and for the most part, my desire to make the utmost of this opportunity, and the enjoyment I get from every aspect of this more than makes up for the occasional moment where my juggling gets a little wobbly. Of all the activities I am engaging in, it is, rather ironically, rowing which helps with this the most. It may be the most physically exhausting of all my interests, but it is also turning out to be the most rewarding.

Of the 38 colleges here at Oxford, almost all have their own boathouses, which are either stand alone buildings, or spaces shared with another college; all of the boathouse are on the River Isis, a part of the River Thames which winds its way through Oxford. At St Peter’s College, our boathouse is shared with Somerville College, with the building itself owned by University (“Univ”) College. We currently have two senior squads, and four novice crews (two men’s, two women’s) – I’m in the WA novice crew. We typically train three times a week: twice on the water, (sidenote: we start at 6:30am. WHILE IT’S STILL DARK. Yeeeaaaahhhh.), and once in the “tank” (imagine a swimming pool with a concert rowing boat in the middle, and you’ll be pretty close. See also: here (thank you, Wikipedia!). Ten days ago, we had our first regatta (named the Christ Church Regatta because the races started in front of Christ Church Boathouse), in which, each race, two boats (because the river is not wide enough for more!) raced 500m, and later in the competition, 750m, until, through some complicated organisation (which no one has properly figured out), the finals were held, and a team for both the men and women are declared the winner.

Going into the Regatta, my crew simply hoped to race as well as we could – we had only been training together for three weeks, and all of us had only begun rowing seven weeks earlier. Despite crashing in our first race (in which we also managed to put a hole in the boat. It was that spectacular.), then having to re-race that same race, winning that re-race, having the win overturned on the grounds of a technicality, being sent to repechage, winning our repechage race and ending back up in the main competition, we somehow managed to make it to the quarter finals, and can officially say we are one of the Top Eight Women’s Novice Crews at the University of Oxford. Not bad, especially when one of us may have bruised her tailbone the day of the first race, persisted in racing on this for the next three days, and then managed to trap her sciatic nerve mid-race, after which she ended up in the Accident and Emergency Department of the local hospital, and given strict instructions not to race again until next term (sorry, Mum…). Despite this, Christ Church was undoubtedly a lot of fun, and I’m looking forward to seeing what rowing next term has in store for us all.

As we inch towards Christmas (or, I should say, “Oxmas”, because Oxford takes Christmas extremely seriously. I’m talking, Christmas lights up by the end of October, seriously), the last couple of weeks (Christ Church Regatta aside) have consisted of numerous deadlines, many hours spent in the library, less hours (ha!) spent drinking mulled wine, helping to decorate the Common Room at College for Oxmas, eating too many mince pies, as well as many a bike ride in the cold, freezing rain (don’t get me started on how much fun that is. Ugh.) and, of course, further juggling of the rest of my commitments. Life is fun, insane, stressful, chaotic, and irreplaceable.

Tomorrow I head to London, to fly to Norway for four nights, which (of course!) I will post about upon my return. Christmas will be spent in London (I will appreciate not being reminded of the summer I am currently missing), New Year’s Eve in Edinburgh, before it’s back to London for some archival research, and then “home” to Oxford to meet my deadlines for the next term, where, I don’t doubt, there will be many more “Oxonian” adventures (and some) to be had.

Welcome to my circus. May the juggling continue.

 

Ash x

 

The staircase to the Dining Room in Christ Church (College). Also known as one of the staircases in Hogwarts (i.e. the Harry Potter films). No big deal.

My rowing crew, post-win.

The college boathouses on the River Isis; these are opposite St Peter’s Boathouse.

Magdalen (pronounced “Maud-lyn”) College.

Magdalen College. This dates to the 15th century.

High Street; in the background is the entrance to University College.

Chapel at Keble College.

 

 

 

Day 30: Through the Looking Glass

When I wrote last post about Oxford being like the Rabbit Hole in Alice in Wonderland, I didn’t realise quite how accurate that analogy was. Living here, studying here, simply being here, you feel as if you are in a world which is distinct from whatever else exists outside of these “walls”. You begin to treat as normal events, occurrences and expectations that ordinarily, you would find strange or intriguing. Yet, at the same time, you are distinctly aware of how your new sense of normal isn’t really normal at all. Hence the title of this post: this Rabbit Hole is much like Alice’s Looking Glass: you feel as if you are simultaneously a part of Oxford, and all that is being here entails, while you also cannot ignore the fact that everyday you felt a distinct sense of surrealism as to where you now find yourself. You feel as if you exist on both sides of the glass: in both Oxford’s world, and the rest of the world. It’s the kind of existence that leaves you shaking your head with bemusement, as you ask yourself how this is now your life. Take, for example, last Sunday afternoon, where I sat studying in the Upper Reading Room of the Bodleian (pronounced “bod-lee-an”) Library, reading an academic study about the world’s greatest libraries, which casually cites the University of Oxford’s Bodleian Library – i.e. the very library in which I was currently sitting – as an example. Such moments are the very definition of surreal.

My life now consists of such paradoxical moments: in the last two weeks, I have matriculated (i.e. been formally admitted to the University of Oxford), spent afternoons buried in the archives of (what used to be) the women-only colleges (= research for my Master’s dissertation), attended classes, drowned slightly in the amount of reading I have to do (one day consisted of reading two books in the same afternoon. Yeeeaaahhhh.), attended “additional” seminars (intellectual development being an important priority here),  spent various mornings and afternoons training for rowing (I currently cannot feel my legs; meanwhile, my shoulders and back are so bruised, it looks like someone has punched me. They haven’t, Mum!), reviewed various events for the paper/website I write for, eaten my way through four, four-course, formal dinners (i.e. two a week), three of which required the wearing of our Sub fusc gowns over the top of our formalwear (because, Oxford), drank more alcohol in a week than I typically would in a month (again, because, Oxford. More on that later) and had the delightful pleasure of showing around two of my favourite people (hiiiii Peta and Troy) as they stopped by on their travels.

Despite how bewildering all of this may sound, I wouldn’t change anything. Oxford may be akin to a certain Rabbit Hole, but as I said last post, it is a Rabbit Hole I feel extremely, extremely fortunate to have found myself down. The only negative, and it really is the only one (perpetual tiredness aside. That is what coffee is for. Also, sleep is overrated, obviously) is how far away I currently am from New Zealand. I doubt I’ll ever stop missing my home, my family, my friends, my cat. And for the Kiwis reading this, please note that I am doing my best to keep in touch, and that each time I receive a text, email, WhatsApp, Facebook message from any of you, it brightens my day (sidenote: while on the subject of Kiwis, let me just say: THAT WORLD CUP FINAL, THOUGH. #AllBlackEverything). That aside, I am only a month in, and already I don’t want this year to end. It might be stressful (and one suspects this is only the beginning), it might be hectic, it might requiring learning to juggle so many commitments you’ll feel at the end you are now qualified to join the circus, but it will, I am beginning to suspect, be well worth it. This is the kind of opportunity, the kind of experience, that is not afforded to everyone, and I intend to take full advantage of it.

So, with that said, allow me to explain what a few of the more “Oxonian” parts of my new normal entail. You can read about matriculation here, but I will elaborate only to say that that was definitely a moment where there was no mistaking where we were. Wearing our Sub fusc, walking through the streets of Oxford, parading past buildings which pre-date the Middle Ages, being photographed by every tourist you walked by, sitting inside the Sheldonian Theatre listening to the Vice Chancellor formally welcome you as a student to one of the “world’s highest ranked universities, where the standard for admission demands we only accept the very best” (his words, not mine!), it was difficult not to want to yell “WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT IS LIFE?” to whoever was near (disclaimer: I did not do this. I did find it in myself to at least appear calmly collected on the outside. Even if I was freaking out internally. HA.).

With rowing about to kick up a gear, as we prepare for our first regatta at the end of this term, I will leave that to another post. Instead, allow me to finish this one with explaining what a “formal dinner” is, and why it differs from, well, dinner. At St. Peter’s College (i.e. my college) we have formal dinner twice a week. We don’t have to attend this if we choose not to (we only pay for the meals we eat), but should we choose to, we receive the privilege of a three(or four)-course meal for only £7.50, which we enjoy whilst sitting in our early 20th century wooden college dining hall, wearing formal wear and our black Sub fusc gowns. It makes you feel as if you’ve stepped into the Great Hall of Hogwarts to eat dinner. Of the four I have attended in the past couple of weeks, one was themed especially for Halloween (meaning the menu contained items such as “Witch’s Drool soup”), another was an exchange dinner (this was with St. Anne’s College; it is what it sounds like: we spent an evening eating with the graduates at St Anne’s in their dining hall, and then, in return, we welcomed them to St Peter’s to do the same), and the last was High Table, where, twice a term (for free!) the graduate students at College are entitled to eat at “High Table”, being the table (and it is literally “higher” than all others in the dining hall) where the fellows, professors and staff eat. Formal dinners allow us the opportunity to dress up, feel like we’re actually at Hogwarts (the gowns definitely assist with this), enjoy food that is typically better than what the dining hall might normally serve (always a bonus!) and attempt to train our livers that it is perfectly normal to consume alcohol before, during and after dinner, and that four different types (prosecco, wine, port, Scotch) in a single night is actually a necessity to ensure said dinners are properly enjoyed.

Like I said, Rabbit Hole.

As I write this post, I am back in the Upper Reading Room of the Old Bodleian Library, where out the window, I can see the rooftops of many of the University’s most well-known buildings. As distracting as this view is (let’s not get me started on this room. Or the fact that on the floor below is the Duke Humphrey’s Library, where part of Harry Potter was filmed. WHAT.), it is time for me to leave this normal, and return to another one.

See you on the other side of the Looking Glass,
Ash x

PS. If anyone has anything they’d particularly like me to write about, regarding Oxford, please do let me know!

Liam, Josh, Cyprien and me in our Sub Fusc, before Matriculation.

The Old Divinity School, in the Old Bodleian Library.

Sheldonian Theatre.

St Peter’s College Library.

Sheldonian Theatre during Matriculation.

Peta and me from the tower of St Mary’s Church.

View of All Souls College from St Mary’s Tower.

Day 12: Down the Rabbit Hole

I have officially been a resident of Oxford, and a student at the University of Oxford, for twelve days, and yet I still walk around with my mouth agape (sidenote: it’s super attractive), staring at the streets, at the buildings, at the people, at Oxford. It feels at times like the very definition of surrealism – I feel like Alice after she fell down the Rabbit Hole into Wonderland, only unlike Alice, I am quite happy not to find a way out. Everything about this place feels a little magical at times, like Oxford exists in a world of its own. And in many ways, it does. There are few institutions that can claim to be as old, or have a history quite as rich. There are few places where almost every building you pass by, or walk into, has you staring and whipping out your phone to take a quick photo, before anyone suspects you to be a tourist. Even fewer still are there places where everyone you are surrounded by is interesting, intelligent, and driven. And there is perhaps only a select few places where you can find yourself on the other side of the world, where you initially knew no one, but where, ten days later, you discover you belong to a group of people you now call friends, people who are just as quirky, just as slightly nerdy, just as appreciative of dry humour, as you.

Two weeks ago, to the day, I was graduating from the University of Auckland. Today, I am sitting in a cafe on Turl Street, around the corner from the Bodelian Library and Radcliffe Camera, drinking a soy latte, watching other Oxford students cycle past as I type. The best part to this scene is the sense of normality I feel – like I have been here much longer. While I still don’t feel completely like a local, I am making excellent progress in becoming one. A crucial step (besides learning your way around, obviously!) is obtaining a bicycle. Since last Thursday, I am now the proud owner of a blue, 1980s, properly retro, completely fabulous bicycle I have named Betty Brooks (she has a Brooks saddle), or Blue Betty for short. It’s completely dorky, but each time I ride her somewhere, I feel so much cooler than I should, and may or may not ride around with a grin on my face as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. At least no one can doubt my enthusiasm…

Another important step to become a proper “Oxfordian” is to become as integrated into the life of your college as you can. Your college, as I briefly talked about last post, is where you “belong” whilst at Oxford. As a graduate student of St Peter’s College, I share the MCR (Middle Common Room) with the rest of my graduate “Peterites”, and it is where many of us can be found cooking (the College Dining Hall can be a biiiiiiit like a lottery to eat at), reading, studying, drinking copious amounts of tea, engaging in discussions (mostly around the underrated use of puns), or trying to ignore the fact we are far more tired than we should be, by making endless cups of coffee. The MCR is a bit like a flat, only you have 100+ flatmates, instead of 3. It’s also where you are always guaranteed to feel at home, where you can escape the insanity of your schedule if only for a little while. Combined with your College Advisor (a fellow at the College who teaches in the same subject area that you are studying in), who is tasked with being a portal of advice, should you need it, belonging to a college ensures you never (hopefully!) feel overwhelmed. Never one to do things by halves (/always keen for a free meal. Totally kidding, MCR Committee), I successfully (and by successfully, I mean uncontestedly) ran for Secretary of the MCR Committee last Sunday. I am now (apparently) a fully-fledged member of the MCR/College. Step two, integration: tick.

Then there is your schedule, which should be so busy, with so many different activities, that you need to have it permanently colour-coordinated. That is normal. In any single week, you should be socialising with your friends (both within your own college, and outside – Fresher’s Week undoubtedly helped with this. I still feel mildly hungover. (Just kidding, Mum and Dad!)), participating in sports teams (I am now a member of the St Peter’s Rowing Club. Training starts Thursday. In the indoor tanks. If I don’t update this blog for a while, it will be because I can no longer move my arms to type), attending seminars and lectures outside of your designated classes (designed to further your intellectual development), volunteering for other societies/groups/charitable organisations, and, of course studying. Managing to find time to do the 300 pages reading you have due for Wednesday (which one of us maaaay be procrastinating from currently. Ha.). The variety, the irregularity, the insanity of how much you try and fit in, all of it is really, actually, brilliant. And while I may be required to survive off coffee and/or tea for the next eight weeks of term, I cannot complain. I suspect I’ll still feel like I am down a magical rabbit hole. Also, the perfectly timed, legitimately condoned “Winesdays” (i.e. Wednesdays), formal dinners at College (twice a week, where, FYI, we must wear our gowns when attending) and “BOPs” (Oxford speak for a party) aren’t exactly bad motivations!

Finally, there is the official, formal induction into the University. This is Matriculation, which for us, is due to take place this Saturday. For Matriculation (which is kind of the opposite to graduation – you are formally welcomed into the University), we must all wear Sub Fusc (pronounced: “sub – “fuss-k”), being our black gowns, black skirts/trousers, white collared shirts, black mortar boards, black ribbons/ties/bowties, and black shoes. Needless to say, some of us (i.e., me) are extremely excited about the prospect of matriculating. I will explain more, and upload some photos, next post.

For now, however, I need to get back to work, and perhaps do the most important step on the list of “How to Become a Proper Oxford Student”: study. After all, isn’t that the point of why we are all here?

Until next time,
Ash x

Betty the bicycle.

View from my study desk in the Radcliffe Camera. Photograph taken on the sly.

Another shot, also taken on the sly, inside the Radcliffe Camera.

The Radcliffe Camera, from outside. Only those with University of Oxford ID cards (aka “Bod(elian) Cards”) are able to enter.

Day 5: Round Two

I didn’t know how to start this post, because my sense of déjà vu is enormous. Approximately ten months after I arrived back in New Zealand, I have found myself back in the United Kingdom, and it’s like I never left. Only this time, my reasons for being here are a little different to last year, and I must remember that the frivolity of being on exchange does not translate to be a Graduate Student of the University of Oxford. This time around, study must come first, although (hopefully!) that will leave a little room for some sightseeing – even if only in my Oxfordshire backyard.

Being accepted to the University of Oxford was one of those moments where, regardless of whatever other plans you have, your life is immediately changed. It is the kind of place you cannot easily say no to, where the advantages of being given the opportunity to learn here outweigh the disadvantages of turning your life upside down to do so. That being said, it is not an easy decision to make, and even I found myself questioning this decision (albeit, briefly), a few times over the last few days. Although that could have been the jet lag! Despite having lived in the UK last year, and having visited Oxford, too, moving here was no less than utterly terrifying. For me, at least, it is hard to leave the incredible people I am fortunate enough to call my friends and family, knowing I will not be seeing many of them for months. It is hard moving to the other side of the world, a journey which takes two days, and, which makes you very aware you cannot simply “drop back in” for the weekend, should you miss some of your favourite people. But, perhaps the most terrifying aspect is Oxford itself, and whether I can cope with the demands it will place upon me. If I can, then I get to walk away with a MSt in Modern British and European History from the University of Oxford, the world’s second best university. If this is not motivation, I don’t know what is!

I arrived in Oxford at 3:30pm last Friday, after a whirlwind week which included graduating from the University of Auckland, and spending a collective total of 24 hours aboard an airplane, as I flew from Auckland to Dubai, Dubai to London. My travel was interrupted by an insane 21 hour stopover in Dubai, with my fabulous Uncles. We spent the day eating (all you can eat breakfast buffet, anyone? Did I mention it was at the Four Seasons Hotel? Or that you have 11 different types of ‘stations’ to choose from?), attempting to walk off that food by conquering the Dubai Mall (it takes three days to do this. Three hours wasn’t quuuiiitttteee enough), visiting Za’abeel Palace, the home of Sheikh Rashid (the father of Dubai’s current leader, Sheikh Mohammed. We could only get as far as the 400 metres from the front gates…), eating more (at a country club in Arabian Ranches, in front of the golf course. Yes, you can get perfect golf courses in a desert. Why not?), temporarily ditching the towering skyscrapers and bright lights of the city for the isolated remoteness of the actual, proper desert, and, following a return to the city, dinner enjoyed in the company of the Dubai Mall Fountains (my favourite attraction in Dubai), broken only by my subtle attempts at catnapping (in the middle of my meal. Yeeeeaahhhh). At 2:50am, Dubai-time, I found myself back aboard another plane, London bound, having successfully avoided sleep for a personal record of 21 hours.

I landed at Gatwick at 7:00am on Friday morning, definitely worst for wear than when I left New Zealand, but not so much that I couldn’t meet another of my two favourite people for breakfast in London. And then, it was time to board the train to Oxford, where, after two and a half days of travelling (my time), I finally arrived. My jet-lag hasn’t always cooperated, but over the last two days (minus the part where I fell asleep on FaceTime to Mum and Dad. Sorry, guys!) I have managed to make friends (from alllll over the world. 25 countries and counting), begin to integrate myself into College and Oxford life, and find my way around. As I go on, I’ll explain more about how Oxford works (mostly as I learn more, too!). But, for an initial point of reference, to study here, you are considered both a student of the University, and of your respective college. My college is St. Peter’s College (SPC), founded in 1929 (it’s one of the ‘babies’, although we occupy one of the oldest sites in Oxford). I live at the College (technically around the corner), eat at the College, and study at the College. The College is kind of like my house, if this were Harry Potter, and the University were Hogwarts (although, the parallels are more real than you may realise…). As a graduate student, I belong to the MCR (“Middle Common Room”), where all the graduates here at SPC can socialise, hang out, and/or study. Although not something I am familiar with, so far, the College system is amazing – it provides you with an excellent way to meet other people, and it gives you a sense of familiarity and belonging that would not always be easy to find in a place like Oxford.

And on that note, it is time for me to get ready to begin Fresher’s Week. If I don’t post anything this week, it’s because I’ve likely passed out under my desk (just kidding, Mum and Dad!), HA.

Ash x

PS. Here are some photos of my touring of both Dubai and Oxford.

View from the edge of the Four Seasons Hotel.

Za’abeel Palace.

Desert. Aka sand, EVERYWHERE.

Abandoned Development, found in the desert, Dubai.

Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

Examination Schools, University of Oxford.

Oxford University Press, Head Office.

St. Peter’s College, Staircase II.

This car is 1) a police car (and a Mercedes, just casually), and 2) owned by the Sheikh, because it has a very, very small number plate (i.e.”7″)

Day 210: Goodbye Rain, Hello Sunshine

Today it is exactly three weeks since I landed back home in New Zealand. As I write this, the sunshine is streaming through the (open) windows, and it’s over 25 degrees Celsius. I’m sitting in an apartment in Auckland, with a view over the Viaduct, Harbour Bridge and the newly built Wynyard Quarter. It’s a complete contrast to where I was four weeks ago, in a cold, wet, rainy Glasgow, where the only view out my window was of the surrounding neighbourhood (assuming I could see out of it!). Auckland may sound like the better option, and whilst I cannot deny I am enjoying the sunshine, I also miss Glasgow, a lot. The last few weeks have been hectic, due in no small part to the rapid succession of my return (which coincided with my brother’s birthday), Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve (and Day), and the start of Summer School. I have only just had a chance to step back, and reflect upon the last six months, during which, I realised yesterday, I slept in 27 (yes, you read that correctly!) different beds, visited 8 countries, 17 cities, caught 8 planes, and flew 52,151 flying kilometres. To describe the last 210 days as a marvellous adventure almost doesn’t do my trip justice.

They say you learn more about yourself travelling than you thought possible. And as clichéd as that sounds, it’s very true. I learnt, after averaging two flights a month for the last six months, that I can now pass through airport security with military precision (and not to wear too much jewellery. You just have to remove it all.). I learnt that I can share a room with one person, two people, or 18 people, and still sleep. I learnt to at least say “hello”, “please” and “thank you” in five different languages (six, if you count Scottish. Ha.). I learnt to navigate the public transport systems in cities which spoke English, cities which spoke little English, and cities which spoke none at all. I learnt to carry a backpack which, by the time it reach Glasgow, was close to 20kg in weight, sometimes for hours at a time (which, for those of you who have seen the size of my biceps, was no mean feat!).

I learnt that you can find common ground with people from all over the world, no matter how different your backgrounds. I learnt (perhaps sadly) to be wary of strangers in big cities, and to be suspicious of unattended luggage and/or packages. I learnt to always stand on the left of the elevators in Underground stations, and that it’s usually the people in the smallest places who will return your smile. It’s said you learn something new everyday, but when you are travelling, that seems to increase tenfold. And that is perhaps one of the best things about it – that you are not only learning new information, but that you find yourself in new situations, which require you to adapt and adjust. You learn, perhaps most importantly, to think on your feet, to trust your instincts, and, to sometimes, just to go with the flow.

When I got back, the most common question I have been asked is what my favourite place was. Besides Glasgow, the answer, for those of you who don’t know, is that I have five: Amsterdam, Edinburgh, Ljublijana, Reykjavik and Oxford. I’d return to any of these places, easily. But surprisingly, few people have asked me what it was like living in Scotland. And while I have described this a little, this was usually in relation to the times when I played tourist. But, I also lived there, and was fortunate enough to learn to see this hugely underrated country from the eyes of the local.

So, what did I learn living in Glasgow, Scotland? I learnt that Scots rival Kiwis in terms of friendliness. I learnt that the Edinburgh accent is easy to understand, the Glaswegian mostly straightforward (unless you are talking to a taxi or bus driver), and the Highlander (and more northern) accents a little more difficult. I learnt that Scots say “aye” for yes, and “hiya” for hello. I learnt that Scottish men do in fact wear kilts: not just to formal events like weddings, but to events of national pride, like rugby or football games. Their kilts are also different patterns, and colours – the tartan (normally) is inherited, and can be traced back to their family’s original clan. I learnt that it (surprise, surprise), rains in Scotland. A LOT. And that the Scottish treat sunshine a bit like atmospheric gold (at least, compared to Kiwis!). I learnt that the Highlands are the British equivalent of New Zealand’s South Island, only with a mythical monster. I learnt that New Zealand is just a baby on the global historical stage, when compared to the history of Scotland (it dates back to BC/CE times). I learnt that Scotland is to England what New Zealand is to Australia (or Canada is to America): the slightly rebellious, slightly quirky, slightly nonchalant younger sibling. I learnt that Scotland is my kind of place.

Of all the places I visited, it’s Scotland which really managed to steal a piece of my heart: for all of these lessons and more, there is just something about the geography, the culture and the people which made me more reluctant to leave than I could have anticipated, and more determined to return. Which, I hope, I will be fortunate enough to do one day soon. If I manage to find myself back in Europe, I’ll be sure to chronicle my adventures back on here. But for now, as I settle back into New Zealand, and attempt to figure out what to do with my life post-Graduation (always a fun task!), it is time to retire this blog, and return to a life a little less in locomotion (however long that lasts!).

Before I do, I’d like to end with this, which I posted on Facebook the day I returned: to all those I met whilst away, be it on my travels, or in Glasgow: thank you. You helped make the last six months unforgettable. To those friends I already knew from home, but who I was lucky enough to meet up with in Europe: thank you. You helped make this trip even more special. And to those back in New Zealand who stayed in touch with me, be it via Facebook, WhatsApp, Viber, Skype or email: thank you. You helped to ensure I stayed in the loop, and reminded me of what I had to look forward to upon returning. While I already miss Glasgow (although perhaps not the rain…), the University which secretly doubled as Hogwarts, and all of the many, many friends I made, right now, there is nothing quite like being back home, especially in time for a New Zealand summer. Europe, thank you for one marvellous adventure. It was an absolute pleasure.

Day 167: Reykjavik

Let me start this post by saying: sometimes the best things in life are those which are based on the most spontaneous of decisions. You know, those decisions where you say yes without thinking, without rationalising what it is you are agreeing to first. That was this trip to Reykjavik. One Saturday in early October, Jack, Sabrina and I sat around our dining table, discussing our upcoming weekend trips away, and lamenting that we hadn’t yet managed to undertake one together. Suddenly, within the space of an hour, we found ourselves booking flights to Reykjavik, Iceland, having successfully excluded the possibility of travelling to Brussels, Prague and Paris. At the time, our trip to Reykjavik felt a long way off. But as time has a habit of doing, suddenly, after a particularly delightful weekend spent studying, we found ourselves with less than four days until we flew out. And first, we had to get through Thanksgiving.

In honour of Jack, our resident American (he’s from Chicago), we decided to throw a “Friendsgiving” dinner party on Thursday 27th, the day of Thanksgiving in America. Inviting 15 of our friends over (who, we later worked out, came from 11 different countries!), each of whom brought a semi-Thanksgiving themed dish for dinner, and who we somehow managed to squeeze around our dining table (which usually seats six), we ate a lot (including the pies I baked for dessert – apple and pecan, as per the occasion!), laughed a lot, and may or may not have drunk a few bottles of wine. It was a lot of fun. Naturally, Sabrina, Jack and I left our packing until Friday morning – we naively thought we’d somehow have time after Thanksgiving. Yeaaahhh. Operating on less sleep than usual, some of us nursing slightly sore heads (not pointing fingers, Jack!), the three of us ran around a little manically, trying to get ourselves organised in time. Somehow we managed to make it to Glasgow International Airport with plenty of time to spare – despite Sabrina and I decided ten minutes before our cab arrived to ditch our small carry on bags, and share a suitcase instead. Nothing like last minute packing to help you overcome tiredness!

After a two hour flight with IcelandAir, a 45 minute bus ride from Keflavik Airport into Reykjavik centre, and a 20 minute walk (suitcases in town) from the main bus station (in which we battled some substantial wind and rain) we arrived at our accommodation for the next three nights: a tiny, two room apartment located ten minutes from the city centre (we found it on Airbnb.com). Aside from having our own space (rather than the perpetually communal living associated with hostels), we were unashamedly excited about the prospect of having a couch, and a TV again (neither of which our flats have here in Glasgow)! Having lost daylight soon after we landed in Reykjavik, we went exploring in the dark, discovering a tiny centre, which, with the near-freezing winter air, and Christmas lights strung everywhere, made us feel as if we had stepped into the real North Pole. After enjoying pizza for dinner at a local institution, a three-storied, slightly ramshackled Italian restaurant called Caruso’s, we wandered around a little more, eating gelato/sorbet (apparently Icelanders each ice cream any time of the year; maybe because it doesn’t ever really get warm enough to do so otherwise!) indulging in some late night browsing in the shops still open, and generally getting our bearings for the upcoming days.

Waking up to find it still dark outside, despite it being well past 9am (turns out Reykjavik averages FIVE hours of daylight at this time of year, good weather assuming!) we took our time getting ready, enjoying watching some Icelandic children’s cartoons (we had no idea what was happening!), and eventually making it into the centre to enjoy a late breakfast/early lunch. We passed most of the afternoon (and most of our hours of daylight) browsing the many local shops (few, if any, were names that we recognised. Which was quite neat!). We discovered that Iceland is famous for its salt, volcanoes (you can even buy volcanic rock earrings), liquorice, chocolate, Lopapeysas (hand-knitted woollen jumpers, made with traditional Icelandic designs), and herbal teas (many of these come from plants unique to the Arctic). Iceland uses the Icelandic Krona for its currency, and the conversation rate during our visit was 1 ISK to 194 GBP (yes, you read that correctly!). Needless to say, this made deciding to purpose something a little complicated, and it was a strange experience carrying around tens of thousands in cash between us, and paying 2,000ISK for a meal!

Later in the afternoon, we made our way to the Hallgrímskirkja, the largest church in Iceland, and which, at 73 metres high, offers spectacular, 360 degree views of Reykjavik. It did not disappoint. From the ground, it’s difficult to really gauge what Reykjavik looks like, as it sits in a valley, bordered by the Atlantic Ocean, and mountainous ranges. From our vantage point, however, we were able to get a much better sense of its geography, as well as spy sights less obvious from street level, such as the colourful rooftops of Reykjavik’s homes, an image for which the city is well known. Starting to feel the effects of a day spent largely in the bitter Northern wind, we escaped indoors to a local café, warming up with a hot drink. From here, our three man tour group headed toward the Harpa, Reykjavik’s concert hall and opera house, which opened in 2011. A stunning example of modern architecture, the Harpa is all the more remarkable given that Iceland suffered bankruptcy during the recent Global Recession. We wandered around this for a wee while, sidetracked only by the gift shop on the ground floor, which appeared to be exclusively selling Christmas decorations, before stopping to enjoy dinner in the atrium.

It was then time to head back to the apartment to layer ourselves up, for our final adventure of the day: our Northern Lights tour. To say we were excited for this is a slight understatement – we had bypassed excitement in favour of mild ecstatic-ism. Boarding the tour bus a little after 7:30pm, we drove for around a half hour, before disembarking atop one of Reykjavik’s surrounding mountains. It was here we stayed for almost two and a half hours, gazing at the sky, playing in the snow (I effectively lost any sense of maturity, and began acting like a small child, which included making snow angels, and engaging in a snow ball fight), and generally trying not to lose limbs in the cold. I was wearing three pairs of socks, wellies, thermal pants, jeans, a thermal long sleeved shirt, a merino long sleeved shirt, a woollen jumper, my puffer jacket, two pairs of gloves, a woollen scarf, and a woollen beanie. And I was still felt like I was at risk of losing my fingers to frostbite!

Unfortunately, the sky was too cloudy for the Lights to make an appearance. As it turned out, the storm we awoke to the next day was to blame. Whilst Saturday at been one of those delightfully cold, but perfectly crisp, and clear days, Sunday could not have been more different. It poured with torrential, incessant rain, whilst the wind was so powerful, to liken it to a gale wouldn’t do it justice. At one point, mid-afternoon, the three of us seriously began to wonder if we wouldn’t end up being picked up by it, and flung around like a rag doll! Not wanting to waste any of the time we had in Reykjavik, however, we braved the weather, first venturing to explore those parts of the city we had not yet (including a fabulous café called Reykjavik Roasters, where I tried an oatmilk coffee. It was delicious!), before finishing off some of our souvenir shopping. Following lunch (at an American style dinner called Roadhouse. It was also excellent), we made our way, battling the elements, to the National Museum, where we spent a couple of lovely, dry, warm hours learning about Iceland’s history.

From here, we made our way to the other side of the city, to have a meander around here. Whilst we had also hoped to seeing the lighting of the Oslo Christmas Tree, an annual tradition where Reykjavik receives a Christmas tree gifted to it by the people of Olso, Norway, the weather had seen this postponed. Running out of room in our suitcases for more shopping, having lost any daylight we had, and now starting to feel perpetually wet and cold, we decided to make our way back to our wee flat, where we spent the evening cooking dinner, and watching bad American reality TV on the couch. It was delightful! Perhaps the best part, however, was discovering at 11pm that our flight back to Glasgow, previously scheduled for 7:35am the following day, had been rescheduled to 1pm, as a result of the storm. And just like that, we no longer had need to awake at 4am. Brilliant.

Already thrilled we’d gained some additional time (and sleep!) in Reykjavik, when we awoke on Monday morning to the sight on snow, it wouldn’t be far from the truth to say some of us (namely me) got very excited, and promptly ran outside to play in it, pyjamas and all. As we walked into city to get some breakfast, walked back to the flat to pick up our luggage, and then walked to the nearby bus station, I remained absolutely ecstatic that I was being actively snowed on, much to the amusement of Jack and Sabrina. It was the perfect ending to one of the most delightful weekends I have had in a while, and as we sat on the bus back to the airport, seeing nothing but a blanket of snow for miles, we all decided we’d have to find a way to come back to Iceland. It proved to be far too charming to resist.

As I finish this post up, it’s less than a week until I leave Glasgow. Having been snowed (no pun intended!) under with exams and assignments for the last two weeks, I have now reluctantly begun packing up my room. And the more I do, the more excited I get about coming home, the more I also want to stay here, and the more reasons I seem to find to do so. It’s the very definition of bittersweet.

• The best meal I ate this trip was… My open face rye sandwich with potatoes, lovage and malt crumble, followed by a slice of citrus and white chocolate tart with crowberries toasted almond flakes, at Smurstöðin in the Harpa. 
• The best place I visited this trip was… The streets themselves. Idyllic, they were made for endless wandering.
• The best thing I learnt this trip was… Iceland does not have an army, a navy, nor an air force. It has never had need.
• The best discovery I made this trip was… The snow we awoke to on Monday morning. That made my day week.
• The best thing I bought this trip was… My Arctic Thyme salt. It gives roast potatoes the best flavour. My Arctic Herb tea comes a close second.

Until next time (which may or may not be from Glasgow. Eeeeppp.),
Ash x

View from our flat.

Snow, as seen close to our flat.

Random act of kindness on an Reykjavik street sign.

The Harpa.

A random, fabulously rainbow coloured building I chanced across. on a side street.

View from Reykjavik harbour-side.

Jack, Sabrina and me.

View from the plane as we took off.

Forget lost and found. A better name is speed dating for gloves.

Day 145: Glasgow: Castle Hunting, Part II – Linlithgow, Dunnottar and Crathes

Life has been a little insane around these parts lately – in all of the best ways possible. Since returning from Amsterdam, I have contended with Halloween (I dresssed up at Velma from Scooby Doo. Complete with a pair of completely appropriate, completely awesome pair of utterly hipster glasses. For three pounds.), Guy Fawkes (Glasgow had a display on at Glasgow Green. It was zero degrees that night. Our toes were not particularly happy with us.), classes (still managing to attend those!), assignments (always fun), society events/meetings (usually an excuse to socialise, and/or spending large amounts of time eating), a visit to Edinburgh (still as beautiful as ever), a international rugby match (being the All Blacks vs. Scotland. I took six rugby novices along, and I’m pleased to say they enjoyed themselves, despite their mistaken allegiance to the wrong team. Ha.) and a delightful visit from the ever lovely Peta (feel free to come back any time, P!). In amongst all of that, I am hurtling closer and closer to leaving, and with so much on, my days are passing faster than ever, at a time when I want nothing more than to drag my feet, just a little! While the solution to this problem would be to acquire a time-turner like Hermione in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azakaban, alas, I cannot bank on this (having failed to do so up to this point). That leaves with me with an alternative (which some might call the only plausible solution): continue to make the most of my days here in Glasgow.

So for the next however many weeks I have left (I am trying not to point a number on these, despite the calendar above my desk staring me perpetually in the face…) my aim is to continue to do and see as much as I possibly can whilst here. Next weekend is an excellent start, as Jack, Sabrina and I head off for a weekend away to Reykjavik, Iceland (yes, I did just write Iceland. Yes, we are going there!). But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, and allow me to backtrack a little and tell you about my Castle Hunting Partner in Crime (aka Sabrina) and I’s delightful weekend to Linlithgow Palace, and Dunnottar and Crathes Castles.

Linlithgow Palace is famed as being the birthplace of Mary, Queen of Scots. Resigned to ruin after a fire destroyed the interiors in the 18th Century, the palace is open today as a site where you can explore the original structure, as it appeared without its ‘window dressings’. Three stories high, and nestled next to Linlithgow Loch, it hasn’t lost much of its magnificence, despite its crumbling state. With countless passageways, staircases, rooms to explore, wandering the Palace felt much like a giant, historical, game of Hide and Seek. Linthligow town itself was also worth a visit. Architecturally resembling many of the small Scottish towns we had visited before, Linlithgow stood out for its breath of tiny, highly specialised, local stores. All decked out with the Christmas decorations, these were very cute. We so badly wished we had a tree to decorate!

Deciding one castle wasn’t enough for the weekend, the next day, Sunday, we hitched a ride with our good friend Jan, and drove to Dunnottar Castle, located on the Aberdeenshire Coast, just over two hours’ drive from Glasgow. To say this castle has a stunning location is an understatement. Situated high atop a cliff top, Dunnottar Castle it surrounded by almost 360 degree views of the North Sea. The day we visited, it was a perfect winter’s day; cool, crisp air, and a bright blue, cloudless sky. Needless to say, Dunnottar made quite the impression! The views were truly something else. With only the sound of the ocean to break the silence, Dunnottar’s isolation was almost unbelievable. Built as a medieval fortress in the 15th and 16th Centuries, Dunnottar Castle has played an important part in much of Scotland’s history, thanks in no small part to its strategic location, and defensive capabilities. Now a ruin, the Castle is composed of 12 buildings, which collectively, offer a fascinating insight into the way in which life was lived some 500 years ago. While, like Linlithgow Palace, some imagination is required to envision what the Castle may have looked liked in its heyday, the surreality of wandering through buildings which have stood for half a millennium certainly helps. Especially when you realise, as I did later into our visit, that Dunnottar Castle has been around longer than New Zealand!

Somewhat reluctant to leave Dunnottar, regardless of the encroaching clouds (this is Scotland, after all), Jan, Sabrina and I also wanted to tick a third castle off our list of the weekend (because we could hardly call ourselves castle hunters if we didn’t). Piling back into Jan’s car, we wove our way through the Highland countryside for a half hour, admiring a near-constant view of rolling green fields, the occasional farmhouse, and forest after forest of trees in varying stages of red, gold and orange. It was quite beautiful. Our next (and final) stop of the day was Crathes Castle, a once-privately owned castle built by the Burnett Family on land gifted to them by King Robert the Bruce.

When we arrived at Crathes, we discovered the last guided tour of the day was about to leave, and that if wanted (and were willing to move at a quickened pace to the Castle), we could join. Having not yet experienced a Castle through the eye of a tour guide, we decided it was an opportunity not to be missed. Our tour guide, Drew, with his delightful Aberdeenshire accent, and typical Scottish charm, taught us more about Crathes Castle than I ever expected to learn. Like most buildings built for a similar purpose, Crathes has a fascinating history, with an impressive guest list, and walls which undoubtedly have many tales to tell. The Castle’s interior is Jacobean in architecture, meaning it dates to around the early 17th Century (despite the family still living here until the late 20th Century). Determined to ensure we admired the Castle appropriately, at one stage, Drew had us lying on the floor, to allow us to properly “view” one of Crathes’s three Scottish Renaissance hand-painted ceilings. Admittedly, we were able to appreciate them better from the ground!

Rapidly losing daylight at this point (as it approached 3:30pm!), our tour ended with, naturally, with stories of some of the numerous ghosts who allegedly haunt Crathes Castle. One is the Lady in the Green Dress, who is believed to be the ghost of a maid murdered alongside her newborn baby, sometime in the Castle’s early days. One of the woman in our tour group informed us she could in fact “feel” ghosts, and that the Lady in the Green Dress was apparently in the house when we were. Not entirely sure what to make of that, and not wanting to end up accidentally trapped in the Castle should she be right, we decided that was an appropriate time at which to take our leave. With decidedly little sunlight left, we had a quick meander around Crathes’s grounds, before jumping back into the car to begin our three hour trek home.

As it currently stands, we have managed to see a enormously grand total of five castles. At this rate (being an average of 2.5 castles a month), it will only take Sabrina and I 66 years to see every one in Scotland. Perhaps not the most sustainable of hobbies, then…

With only a matter of weeks left in Glasgow, and with exams and final assignment deadlines fast approaching, the next wee while is going to pass in the blink of an eye. Which I am trying not to think about, for as excited as I am to come back to New Zealand, and see everyone I have been missing, I also really, really, don’t want to leave here.

I really need to get my hands on that time turner.

Until next time, which will be from Iceland (!!!!!!!!!!),
Ash x

Gate to Linlithgow Palace.

Sabrina and me in Linlithgow’s Great Hall.

View from Linlithgow Palace.

Dunnottar’s Drawing Room, reconstructed.

View from Dunnottar Castle.

Crathes Castle.

View from Crathes Castle.

Sabrina, Anna, Jan, Michiel and me at the All Blacks vs. Scotland game.