Oxfordshire Quotes

On that same tour we ran into a band at Aylesbury Friars, a biggish venue in Oxfordshire, England. They were a four-piece from Ireland called U2. They seemed like nice fellows and they sounded pretty good, but we didn’t keep in touch. They’re probably taxi drivers and accountants by now.

What was your first job title? Waiter. It was at a showy opera festival in a barn in Oxfordshire. I did it for a whole summer and people would be so extraordinarily rude that it made me decide that I would never be rude in my life, specifically to people who were kind enough to serve things.

Young women should not go alone on dark nights, even in Oxfordshire. But any prowling maniac would have had more than his work cut out if he had accosted Anathema Device. She was a witch, after all. And precisely because she was a witch, and therefore sensible, she put little faith in protective amulets and spells; she saved it all for a foot-long bread knife which she kept in her belt.

Adlestrop Yes, I remember Adlestrop -- The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June. The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop -- only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky. And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

She fed him scraps from her ragbag because words were all that were left now. Perhaps he could use them to pay the ferryman. Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold. The world is charged with the grandeur of God. Full fathom five thy father lies. Little lamb, who made thee? Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie. On that best portion of a good man's life, his little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Farther and farther, all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. The air rippled and shimmered. Time narrowed to a pinpoint. It was about to happen. Because the Holy Ghost over the bent world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Douglas, I've made a few small changes to acknowledge the passing of the years. Hope you're alive and well in some parallel universe - you're sadly missed in this one. John Lloyd, Oxfordshire, 2013

Embora Mr. Gulliver tenha nascido em Nottinghamshire, onde seu pai viveu, eu o ouvi dizer que sua família veio de Oxfordshire; confirmando o fato, observei no cemitério da igrega em Bandury, neste condado, diversas tumbas e monumentos dos Gullivers.

He leans over and puts the radio on. It’s Jason Donovan’s ‘Sealed With A Kiss’. ‘I love the music they play up here in the sticks,’ I say ‘We’re in Oxfordshire, darling. Not Far East Kentucky,’ replies Jake ‘When I first heard this song, I thought it was about sea eels,’ I say. ‘Because it’s about summer,which means swimming, and I’d just found out that sea eels even existed, and it seemed to make sense.’ ‘Sea eeled with a kiss?’ repeats Jake

During his Oxford years, microprocessors became available. So, just as Wozniak and Jobs had done, he and his friends designed boards that they tried to sell. They were not as successful as the Steves, partly because, as Berners-Lee later said, “we didn’t have the same ripe community and cultural mix around us like there was at the Homebrew and in Silicon Valley.”7 Innovation emerges in places with the right primordial soup, which was true of the Bay Area but not of Oxfordshire in the 1970s.

Isis is the Egyptian mother goddess of magick, whose worship prevailed in the Greco-Roman world.  Her name means “Throne”, reflected in her headdress which is shaped like a throne.  Her spouse was originally Osiris, but became Serapis in the Greco-Roman myths, and her son became transformed from Horus to Harpocrates. Evidence of her worship in Britain has been found in an inscription on a jug  found in Southwark (London).[369]  The inscription on the jug indicates an Iseum (Isis temple) in London, but the location of this temple has yet to be determined.  An altar found in Blackfriars records the restoration of a temple to Isis in the third century CE, further reinforcing evidence of her worship.[370]  It has been suggested by some modern writers that the river Isis in Oxfordshire was named after this goddess, though this may in fact be a coincidence. The name of the river Isis is most probably a contraction of the name Thamesis. It is likely that "Thamesis" is a Latinisation of the Celtic river names "Taom"(Thames) and"Uis"(is), giving "Taom-Uis"meaning "The pouring out of water". An engraved onyx intaglio found at Wroxeter (Shropshire) dating to the third century CE shows Isis bearing a sistrum in her right hand.[371]  Another gem from Lockleys (Hertfordshire) dating to the fourth century CE shows Isis standing between Bes and a lioness, all surrounded by a serpent ouroboros.[372]

A new wife is not a matter. She is my family. Their Graces have had thirty years to spend holidays with us, and this my first—” Westhaven sighed, took a sip of punch, and glanced over at Val. “It doesn’t get easier the longer you’re married. You still fret, more in fact, once the babies start coming.” Val’s head cocked, as if he’d just recalled his brother was also his friend. “Well, as to that…” Val smiled at his punch. Baby Brother sported a devastating smile when he wanted to, but this expression was… St. Just lifted his mug. “Congratulations, then. How’s Ellen faring?” “She’s in fine spirits, in glowing good health, and I’m a wreck. I think she sent me off to Peterborough with something like relief in her eye.” Westhaven was staring morosely at his grog. “Anna isn’t subtle about it anymore. She tells me to get on my horse and not come back until I’ve worked the fidgets out of us both. She’s quite glad to see me when I return, though. Quite glad.” For Westhaven, that was the equivalent of singing a bawdy song in the common. St. Just propped his mug on his stomach. “Emmie says I’m an old campaigner, and I get twitchy if I’m confined to headquarters too long. Winnie says I need to go on scouting patrol. The reunions are nice, though. You’re right about that.” Val took a considering sip of his drink then speared St. Just with a look. “I wouldn’t know about those reunions, but I intend to find out soon. Dev, you are the only one of us experienced at managing a marching army, and I’m not in any fit condition to be making decisions, or I’d be on my way back to Oxfordshire right now.” “Wouldn’t advise that,” Westhaven said, still looking glum. “Your wife will welcome you sweetly into her home and her bed, but you’ll know you didn’t quite follow orders—our wives are in sympathy with Her Grace—and they have their ways of expressing their…” Both brothers chimed in, “Disappointment.

Mrs Hargreaves liked her job and she liked the Hoopers. As far as she was concerned there was far too much twaddle being talked about Glade Hall, by people with too much time on their hands. “Over fertile imaginations.” She’d told the new head gardener. Some of the locals had worked for the hotel and told stories of seeing shadows around the grounds, when the light was just right. As if shadows could hurt anyone ! It was all twaddle and nonsense.

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Uffington White Horse, which in this world is carved on the downlands near the village of Uffington in southwest Oxfordshire. It’s

One of the guests at this wedding, who has been close to her for years, says that here in Oxfordshire, Rebekah [Brooks] is a country wife... but that, in London, where the real transactions take place, she is 'the beating heart of the Devil'.

Cameron was born in 1966 and attended Eton College and Oxford University. He became the Member of Parliament for Witney in Oxfordshire in 2001. Four years later he was elected leader of the Conservative Party, where he implemented a programme of modernisation. After the 2010 election he became prime minister of a coalition government,

Cameron was born in 1966 and attended Eton College and Oxford University. He became the Member of Parliament for Witney in Oxfordshire in 2001. Four years later he was elected leader of the Conservative Party, where he implemented a programme of modernisation. After the 2010 election he became prime minister of a coalition government, which turned

So is this Val’s widow?” A jovial male voice sang out from the back of the box, and because she was watching her escort’s every move, Ellen saw Gayle Windham almost roll his eyes. “Percy!” A soft, female voice chided. “Really. Lady Roxbury is Valentine’s friend and was his neighbor in Oxfordshire. My lady, Esther, the Duchess of Moreland, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Valentine’s mother, and this scandalous old reprobate is His Grace, Percival, the Duke of Moreland.” Ellen would have fallen on her backside had Westhaven not had her hand tucked firmly on his arm. She curtsied, murmuring something polite, her mind whirling at the august personages before her and the casual manner in which they’d introduced themselves. Maybe Val hadn’t known his parents were using their box tonight, she reasoned. This whole trip to Town had been so odd, with Westhaven explaining only that Val wanted her to attend the opening night of the symphony’s fall season. She’d been whisked to Town, spent the night in one of the most elegant townhouses she’d ever seen, presented with a peculiarly well-fitting bronze silk evening gown and all the trimmings, and now here she was. “They’re growin’ ’em almost as pretty as my duchess out in Oxfordshire, I see,” the duke said, beaming at Ellen. Did dukes beam? Something in the mischief of his smile tickled her memory. “You and Val have the same smile,” she informed the duke. “And Your Grace”—she turned to the duchess, a stately, slender lady whose hair was antique gold—“Val has your eyes.” The duchess leaned close to whisper, “But I think Valentine has your heart, hmm?” She straightened and took her husband’s arm. “Shall we be seated, Percy? One doesn’t want to disappoint the crowds.” Westhaven

Sussex, hailed back to Oxfordshire by Rutland’s

But my parents who died in the fire, they...they were part of a noble family in England. The family has always owned the Rockford Manor in Oxfordshire, which is a mansion that includes acres of land, plus a local village where people live and farm---" "Wait, noble? Do you mean like royalty?" Zoey interrupts, her eyes wide. "No, no. But in England there's a system called the peerage---dukes and duchesses, earls and countesses---and they're ranked just below royalty. My dad was the younger son of the Duke of Wickersham, which made him a lord and my mom a lady." Carole and Keith sit frozen, listening to me with a look of dread in their eyes. "So what does that make you?" Zoey asks breathlessly. "Well, when my parents were alive, it meant that I was treated a certain way just because I was part of this family of dukes and duchesses. But then after the fire, the line of succession changed---everything changed. My first cousin, Lucia, became next in line to inherit Rockford Manor and the title. So she would have been the Duchess of Wickersham." I swallow hard. "But she died in an accident last year---which I didn't even know about until today." My hands shake as I speak, and I can't look at Keith and Carole, unable to grasp how they could have kept this from me. "That's awful! But what does it mean for you?" Zoey presses. "Her death left me next in line after my grandfather. And he passed away last month---which I was also unaware of." This time I'm able to look at Carole and Keith, shooting them a withering glare. Zoey's mouth hangs open. "That means you're...you're a...?" "Yeah. You're looking at the new Duchess of Wickersham and owner of Rockford Manor.

Now, for your final lesson of the day, it's essential that you know why your title was created. Do you have any idea?" I shake my head sheepishly. "One of your ancestors, Randolph Henry Rockford, proved to be one of England's greatest military heroes at the turn of the eighteenth century. After he won a number of crucial battles for England, King George I expressed his gratitude by granting him a dukedom over the settlement of Wickersham, along with the massive funds to build a palace worthy of such a hero," Basil explains. "Of course, the papers scoffed that King George was cruel to choose Wickersham, for the land was notoriously barren, especially in comparison to Oxfordshire's other, far more verdant towns. But eventually the fifth Duchess of Wickersham, Lady Beatrice, changed all of that." "What did she do?" I ask. "I suppose you could say she was the ultimate green thumb. Within a year, ugly old Wickersham was transformed into one of the most beautiful, frequently painted landscapes in England." This is the first moment of our lesson where I feel a flicker of interest. "How did she do it?" Basil hesitates. "It's hard to separate truth from fiction on that account. I suppose we'll never know.

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Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill was born on November 30, 1874, at Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, England, into the influential and aristocratic family of the Dukes of Marlborough, a branch of the Spencer-Churchill family, in the closely knit inner circle of Victorian society. Winston S. Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph Churchill, was a direct descendent of John Churchill, the man who became first Duke of Marlborough early in the eighteenth century after fighting for king and country against Louis XIV of France during the War of Spanish Succession.

Their subsequent journey to Europe took them to New York City, where they boarded a converted passenger liner and set off on a harrowing trip across the North Atlantic, during which German U-boats hunted for ships just like theirs. Finally, they landed in Britain, where, to their delight, they were welcomed by people who had never heard of segregation. The freedoms they experienced there were life-changing. In villages in Wales and Oxfordshire, they lifted pints in pubs alongside white men for the first time and danced with white girls. This warm welcome infuriated many white American soldiers, particularly southern ones, who tried, and failed, to poison the Britons against the “Negroes.

There’s those as would say that London would definitely be England’s murder capital. Others are sure it’s Birmingham, or Manchester, or Liverpool. Some even suggest my own home city of Bristol. There’s a cluster of villages in Oxfordshire that regularly vies for the title, but have a guess where it really is.

Although Beatrix considered Hampshire to be the most beautiful place in England, the Cotswolds very nearly eclipsed it. The Cotswolds, often referred to as the heart of England, were formed by a chain of escarpments and hills that crossed Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire. Beatrix was delighted by the storybook villages with their small, neat cottages, and by the green hills covered with plump sheep. Since wool had been the most profitable industry of the Cotswolds, with profits being used to improve the landscape and build churches, more than one plaque proclaimed, THE SHEEP HATH PAID FOR ALL. To Beatrix's delight, the sheepdog had a similarly elevated status. The villagers' attitude toward dogs reminded Beatrix of a Romany saying that she had once heard from Cam... "To make a visitor feel welcome, you must also make his dog feel welcome." Here in this Cotswold village, people took their dogs everywhere, even to churches in which pews were worn with grooves where leashes had been tied.

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Yet I am writing this in Oxford, England, where winter nights are likewise often cold enough to kill any human unprotected by clothing and other technology. So, while intergalactic space would kill me in a matter of seconds, Oxfordshire in its primeval state might do it in a matter of hours – which can be considered ‘life support’ only in the most contrived sense. There is a life-support system in Oxfordshire today, but it was not provided by the biosphere. It has been built by humans. It consists of clothes, houses, farms, hospitals, an electrical grid, a sewage system and so on. Nearly the whole of the Earth’s biosphere in its primeval state was likewise incapable of keeping an unprotected human alive for long.

Even the Great Rift Valley in eastern Africa, where our species evolved, was barely more hospitable than primeval Oxfordshire. Unlike the life-support system in that imagined spaceship, the Great Rift Valley lacked a safe water supply, and medical equipment, and comfortable living quarters, and was infested with predators, parasites and disease organisms. It frequently injured, poisoned, drenched, starved and sickened its ‘passengers’, and most of them died as a result.

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Do you suppose Valentine is happy?” Women. They were forever pondering the imponderables and expecting their menfolk to do likewise. “Valentine delights in his music, the Philharmonic is ever after him to give up his ruralizing and come to Town to rehearse them. One must conclude his rustic existence appeals to him.” Her Grace set the letter aside. “Or being up in Oxfordshire appeals to him, or his wife appeals to him. I think Ellen is yet shy of polite society.” If their youngest son ran true to Windham form, he was spending the winter keeping his new wife warm and cozy, and perhaps seeing to the next generation of the musical branch of the family. His Grace reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “We’ll squire her around next Season, put the ducal stamp of approval on Val’s choice.

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A volte penso che abbiamo fatto un grande giro per tornare a calpestare le vecchie orme. Siamo ancora sotto l'ombra dell'albero di Matthew Arnold, a contemplare i pinnacoli di Oxford, con attorno la quieta campagna inglese. Campi e campanili. Com'è conciliante e ordinata questa natura. Popolata da creature innocue e laboriose, regolare e placida come l'Oxfordshire. - indicò i pascoli. - Siegfried l'ha capito, sai. E' per questo che apprezza le mie poesie e le pubblica sul giornale. E' l'orrore che si scorge in trasparenza. Non c'è bisogno d'essere modernisti per vedere i crateri delle bombe in mezzo ai prati. - Ma non possiamo scrivere della guerra per sempre. - ribatté Robert. - Io vorrei che Nancy illustrasse i miei versi. Voglio scrivere per Jenny. C'è qualcosa davanti a noi, il resto della vita, la famiglia, i figli. Si trattenne. Chiese scusa. Ed parve non farci caso. - Siamo come talpe. - mormorò. - Abbiamo scavato il nostro buco su questa collina e sbirciamo fuori, chiedendoci cosa ci sia laggiù. Laggiù c'è ancora la guerra. Ci sono i mostri. Facciamo finta di non saperlo, ma ci stringono d'assedio.

CHAPTER ONE It was a beautiful Sunday evening in mid-March when Hillary Greene turned the corner onto a very familiar part of the Oxford canal. Up ahead, she could just make out the first glimpse of the few rooftops and chimneys that marked the small hamlet of Thrupp, which was less than a mile from Kidlington, in the heart of Oxfordshire’s Thames Valley. She throttled down the engine of the Mollern, her narrowboat and home for more