Since Oxford-based pub The Perch was the only tavern open on a Sunday, this expression became common-place for the the inhabitants of the small village of Binsey, then on the outskirts of Oxford. We didn't go to church (well, it was a Saturday night, after all), but we did head to The Perch for a drink and dinner last night. Leaving the main road just outside of the centre of Oxford, a few minutes later it felt like we were in the wilderness even though we were smack in the middle of the city sprawl.
One of The Man's former work colleagues was celebrating her birthday (I won't say which one) and we decided to head up to Oxford for the night to join in the fun. With the speed of a race-car driver (and yes, this is how The Man drives), Oxford was only a mere 45 minutes from London. The night was clear and warm, but owing to the vicissitudes of the British summer the pub had set up a covered tent in the back garden. Filling our bellies with steak and wine, swaying to the tunes of a jazz trio, the night around us took on a magical quality and time flew by.
Photo courtesy of Flickr.
As with most British pubs, closing time came way too early. We took a final stroll around the grounds and down to the river, then back to the car. Five minutes later we were back in the twenty-first century and blitzing back to London, the age-old world of The Perch fading into memory.