A Walk Through Lewis Country

Oxford is, among other things, home to renowned writer C.S. Lewis. He certainly has been one of our own favorite authors over the years, and so when Greg found out there was a C.S. Society here that met on a regular basis, he decided to drop in and see what it was like. He has been several times now in my absence, and signed us up for a Pub Walk yesterday evening. I have to tell you, I was bracing myself for an interminably boring evening with a bunch of intellectual blow-hards. How delightful to be proved wrong!

Ten or so of us took a bus out to Headington (just outside of Oxford, but not exactly walking distance), where Lewis's home and grave are located. This interesting bunch was comprised of one large strapping Finn named Jason, five Spaniards, a smattering of students from the U.S., and a Dutch medical student. Oh, and a quiet, bearded young father who looked like something straight out of a John Singer Sargent painting. His two small boys were in tow. Plus a dear old saint named Richard, who looked kind of like Gandalf from the Lord of the Rings, and was the one who led us on a really magical tour . . .

What does a Pub Walk mean? In our case, it meant first visiting Lewis's gravesite, and the church where he worshipped.

The seat where Lewis sat in church (on the left side of the central aisle, mid-way down, near the window) is marked with a small brass plaque:

And if you sit in that spot and look left out the window, here is what you see:

And we walked passed his home on the way there (one of the above-mentioned students is living there now for a couple of months):

And then we went to a pub just a stone's throw away for a pint. But that was just the preamble. Because then, I was told, we were to walk almost an hour to the next pub, where we would have dinner. I balked. Are you kidding? An hour? The inner whining child complained loudly. But sometimes you just gotta tell that kid to yap it. Because that next hour was fantastic! Lewis's house originally sat on 8 acres of land, and with Richard leading, we walked through that land toward the Cricketer's Arms pub. There was a pond with a heron that flew across our line of vision, hills and dales, dappled sunlight on bluebells in glades- the works. Then fields of buttercups, and ponies, the occasional dog, the charming village, the glorious long distance views . . . and all the while, wonderful conversations with the various parties, all of whom had very interesting stories to tell. By the time we got to the charming little pub, we were SO ready for dinner (which we wisely ordered ahead of time by phone), but so satisfied by the rich conversations we had all had. A really great evening, and not a blow-hard to be seen for miles.