The pubs of Oxford

Look at this Times feature on the wonderful, wonderful pubs of Oxford. It is balm in Gilead, at least if you're me. I was in Oxford once, nine years ago, and visited the Eagle and Child (where the Inklings drank; disappointing, only because they were playing abominable Eurodisco), and the spectacularly Tolkienesque warren called The Turf, which could have been lifted straight from Bree. In heaven, there are Oxford pubs. In fact, heaven itself might be Oxford pubs. They represent a certain kind of American's Platonic ideal of Englishness. I fear it's better, in some ways, not to have visited them and had one's ideals sullied by the real world -- I would be better off had I not had my pilgrimage to the Eagle and Child ruined by the crap music (though what did I expect, madrigals?) -- but if you have had a pint of ale in a place like The Turf, and were still enough to think about where you were and all the things that had happened in this wonderful town, it truly will become a cherished memory, a foretaste -- if you're me -- of a hobbity paradise in its coziness, warmth and conviviality. From the Times:

A pub is a great leveler — not a workingman’s club, but an everyman’s club. The best are filled not only with the scent of yeast and hops, but also with banter and wit. Back in 1954, when the Rose & Crown on North Parade Avenue in Oxford was threatened with closure (inadequate toilet facilities), the defense that won the day called it a “home of cultured, witty and flippant conversation.” Whether it’s how to warm plates swiftly or use the hyphen correctly, there’s no talk like pub talk. Some, like the Rose & Crown, are a kind of family. Its landlord, Andrew Hall, knows exactly how much to know of his regulars’ business. But every well-behaved person who is neither a dog nor a politician is welcome too.

The Rose & Crown is an ideal pub. Half a mile north of the city center, it’s only 140 years old, but the three small, wood-paneled rooms and the affable, eloquent host make it a home away from home. It also keeps the best pint of Old Hooky in town. Brewed about 20 miles away at Hook Norton, said to be the country’s last “steam brewery” (i.e., very old-fashioned), it’s a legend in the annals of real ale, a vessel of hazel clarity, redolent of harvest stubble lit by an evening sun, of woods drenched in rain, of dewy meadows at dawn, of cattle in dells, of Thomas Hardy and sandy-gray churches nestled in the nook of sheep-studded hills. If this isn’t the drinkable essence of England, nothing is.

The Bear, tucked down Blue Boar Lane at the back of Christ Church, has only two tiny wood rooms, which date from 1242. They are covered, wall and ceiling, with picture frames containing short pieces of ties. Ties of clubs, regiments, schools — the Royal Gloucester Hussars, the Imperial Yeomanry, the Punjab Frontier Force, Lloyd’s of London Croquet Club — telling of an older, more powerful, more sedate England. Croquet, beer, cricket, empire and P G. Wodehouse: a snip off your tie, and you’ll get a free pint.

There’s no mistaking the age of the Turf Tavern. Its string of low-beamed, stone-walled rooms could be straight out of Chaucer. But what really makes it is its three gardens. In one, beside the cottages of Bath Close, you could be in a Cotswold village, with flower boxes and black beams. The other side, you’re deep in the shade of the ancient city wall, erected against the Vikings. You can hardly tell if it’s 2008 or 1408. You hear no cars or TVs, only the babble of voices softened by ale and nighttime. How many centuries have people hungry for learning, for the book, sat here under the walls swigging jars of ale? On a summer night, with the sky stretched over the stones of Oxford, history becomes a living stream of Ruddles and Theakstons, Hook Norton and Feathers.

Home of cultured, witty and flippant conversation. And beer. I say unto you: if that's not paradise, what is?