Morris Minor Alert!

Yesterday, as I was walking back to OUP from the Oxford University Language Centre, I spotted a different Morris Minor.  After a few months living here, I'd already become acquainted with two in Jericho, one living primarily on my street & another that's frequently parked outside the Robert Maxwell house on Canal Street.  Both are 1000 series saloons (one convertible), & I see them frequently enough not to look twice anymore, but I was really excited by my find yesterday afternoon. 

Cruisin' to the Hamburger Stand now

Pretty cool, eh?  This is a 1000 series estate, called the Traveller, but affectionately known as a 'woody'.  Check out the wood-paneling on the sides & back.  I can't yet identify the ages of these by sight, but Morris only made them up til 1971, so at the very youngest, it's 8 years my senior.  You're only as old as you feel, right?  By the time I'd drawn my camera for a shot, the driver was pulling away, so I don't have a pic of the front, but here's one from the interwebs:

I might need one.

Amble to Eynsham

This past Saturday, Fi & I & some friends walked from Jericho, our neighborhood in Oxford, to the nearby village of Eynsham.  We'd gathered to send off our friend Nic, who'd just accepted a job in another town & required a nice to-do in Oxford before parting.  Our journey began on Victor St, where everyone (FMMC, Bev, Nic, & Jamie) met us around 11 a.m.

From there, we turned toward the canal crossing at the northwest corner of our hood, a few blocks from my apmt.  Once on the other side of the canal, we followed the Isis northward to Walton Well Road, which runs westward & dead-ends into Port Meadow.

Entering Port Meadow on the SE side, where the path begins, we headed across the southern tip.  This part of the meadow features cows.

Upon reaching the other side, we crossed a footbridge & turned upward to follow the river north.

Massive green trees, blooming wildflowers, & sculls stroking up & down the river, this part of the walk was very picturesque.

Onward we walked up the Thames River Path, accompanying the eastern bank of the river to the northern edge of the meadow, where the ruins of Godstow Nunnery reside just below Godstow Road.

Godstow's the turn-off for Wolvercote, Oxford's neighbor to the north & home of the region-famous Trout Inn, salubrious pub & vendor of delicious vittles.  We'd reserved a table there ahead of time for lunch.  Chalk one up for prudent planning.

I ordered pork belly, which was rested on a mound of creamy mashed potatoes & topped with crispy fried leeks, around which some kindly chef had drizzled a balsamic reduction.  Om nom to the extreme.

Washed down with a coupla pints of Brakspear, 'twas a very fine meal.  Fi & I are already scheming a
return.  Once the group'd finished eating, we continued our march up the Thames Path & encountered a few others out enjoying the riverbank:

& sparsely moored along the shoreline were more canal boats:

One of which looked quite welcoming:

What would a batch of photos be without at least one picture of Fi sticking out her tongue?

That's my girl.  I managed to squeeze in some close-ups of the wildflowers, a few of which turned out nicely:

 

By this point in the ramble we'd nearly reached Eynsham, roughly a 6-7 miles trek.  Not a bad day's work, really.  In order to enter into the village, we had to cross a set of canal locks:

& ultimately we reached our destination, Eynsham's own Arkell's pub, the Talbot Inn:

After a much-deserved pint of liquid refreshment, we bussed it back to Oxford, well-exercised & high-spirited.  Three cheers for a great Saturday!!

More than Meets the Eye

Yesterday I bought a transformer.

Why would I do such a thing??  Without a little help from their friends, electric appliances originating in America won't work in the United Kingdom for a couple of reasons: 1) UK electrical outlets are differently shaped & sized.  British plugs are considerably larger, similar to what you'd find on a washer/dryer in the States, & they've all got three prongs.  2) Voltage runs hot here. The sockets in America are putting out 110-120v, while their English counterparts are doing 220-240v.  Those of you who've burned up the motor on your hair clippers by trying to use them in Oxford, that's why.

 Optimus Prime, eat your heart out.

Though adapter plugs can be used for some things, like laptops & ipods that're engineered to handle a range of voltages around the world, most American appliances require a middle man.  Transformer to the rescue..!  A hefty hero, weighing in at around 25 lbs (weight is a sign of reliability), the 1500w transformer is a purpose-built behemoth, clearly not designed to feature among the Kitchenaid stand-mixer & matching Le Creuset.  Though it's not the prettiest gadget in my trenchcoat, I am relieved to finally have one.  Now, anytime I want to operate my American coffee grinder, all I've gotta do is hoist this boat anchor onto the countertop & go to town!

Genealogy, pt. I

Fi & I have recently been kicking around the idea of taking a trip to Ireland.  In our discussions about where in particular, the subject of my family history arose, & we thought it might be of interest to seek out where the Keegans (my mother's side) originated.  I remembered that awhile back Aunt Donna began working on a family tree, so dug up my login & pw to see what I could find there.

It turns out that the Keegans' history in America dates back to Kerrin, my fourth great grandfather (i.e. great great great great grandfather).  As of now, I only know that Kerrin was Irish-born, from a one-horse town called Cloghan, which was then part of King's County (with the establishment of the Irish Free State in 1922, the county took on the far less British name "Offaly", after the ancient kingdom of Uí Failghe).

Although it was once a thriving hub in medieval times, Cloghan's not much more than a speck on the map these days.  Situated near the western border of the Leinster province, it's a little over an hour's drive outside of Dublin, marking the intersection of a National secondary road & a couple of regional roads.  In the 2006 census, Cloghan's population measured 503.  A bit of nosing around on the internet yielded this outsider testimony:

It was good to stretch our legs in the countryside, but I don't think we realized how rural it was going to be! We had a hard time wrapping our heads around the fact that the town of Cloghan consisted of 1 roundabout, two pubs, a corner bistro, a SPAR, and a park that used to be a Protestant Church, but was abandoned.

In another post, this author compares County Offaly to Kansas, praising it as a place of 'agrarian heritage & kind people'.  No wonder the Keegans ended up in Iowa!  From what I can tell, traditionally, the sole resource in that part of Ireland is & has been peat, which the farmers harvest from the surrounding bog, dry out, & then sell to others who burn it for energy.  Fi says Ireland is full of bogs.

A bog.

Kerrin was married to Margaret, also born in 1819, but hailing from a place called Shankill Lower in County Cavan, which is in the Ulster province to the North.  The daughter of Edward & Mary Smith, Margaret married Kerrin in 1841 in New York City.  Whether they traveled over from Ireland together & then married in America or just met in the States is still a mystery to me.  I haven't been able to find a record of them on Ellis Island yet, but Kerrin's name is notoriously difficult to spell, so it's possible he's been recorded as Kearn, Kearin, or some other variation I haven't anticipated.

Irish immigrants.

If all of this information's correct (nothing is certain--I haven't seen any hard evidence, so all of these conclusions are based on internet research), the Keegans ending up in America then particularly is very interesting.  As you know, the Irish Potato Famine provoked tides of immigration to America, but the blight didn't start showing up til late 1844, after the Keegans had been in America some time already.

Margaret & Kerrin don't show up on the grid again until 1844, when the records indicate they begot their first born, Tom Keegan, Sr., in the great southern state of Louisiana.  The how & why of their trip from the Big Apple to the Big Easy is still a mystery to me, but I suppose speculation's part of the fun in this genealogy business, trying to extrapolate someone's life story from a line or two of census data & a marriage certificate.  Curiously, I came across a record stating Tom had two younger siblings (Catherine & Mary Ann) born in New York City, & then another (James T.)  in Louisiana, all before the family relocated to Iowa, implying that the Keegans must've had reason to travel back & forth between LA & NY.  Very curious, isn't it? 

New Orleans, 19th century

As I've indicated by the title, this will be the first of a few more posts about my family-tree research.  There's still plenty more to come about the Keegans, & some exciting revelations about the Kohls as well.

I sing of...

Meaty sausage, how I adore your taste,

Esp the sweet bits of pork fat which you've encased.

Charred crisp on the grill or sizzled in the pan,

Sausage for breakfast makes jolly this man.

Had I just a few (more) bedecking my plate,

Om nom nom I would, without a second's wait,

Take joy in pork sausage, world, hear my shout,

Pile high the links, and let's, all of us, pig out!

May Day in Oxford

This past week was May Day, which is a bank holiday in the UK, so those of us on this side of the drink had Monday off of work (in observance).  Oxford, in particular, toasts May Morning with its own brand of celebration, so this year Fi & I rose before the dawn in order to take part.

5 a.m.
The alarm clock sounds, disrupting the mere 3.5 hours of sleep Fi & I'd managed by then.  The night before we'd attended the ballet (Manon--Thanks, M!) in London, and following that, we drove back to Oxford afterward, putting us in OX2 around 115 in the morning & ensuring a short, short slumber.

Scandalous, yet awesome.

530 a.m.
Dressed & espressoed, Fi & I left the apmt & repaired toward Magdalen College, which is about 30 mins' trek from our place.  As we drew closer, it became clear that quite a few Oxonians shared in our agenda.  By the time we'd made our way down the High Street, droves of people had compacted into one massive congregation, all but blocking the road.

6 a.m.
May Morning begins with the Magdalen College Choir belting out the Hymus Eucharisticus from atop the Magdalen Tower, which activity officially inaugurates the day's celebrations.  I've heard tell that in years past their singing was quite faint, just loud enough to hear over the rabble below.  Now, however, the music is fed through an amplification system, so everyone in the postal code & his dog can hear. 

630 a.m.
The choir finished, so it was high time to head to the pub.  Most pubs in the vicinity opened early for the occasion, so we tried the Turf Tavern first.  As luck would have it, the landlord had decided against serving alcohol that morning, only offering breakfast to his weary customers.  This just wouldn't do, so we defaulted to the King's Arms, hallowed Oxford institution of higher tippling.

Highest IQ per ft² of any pub in the world

645 a.m.
Sure enough, the KA came through for us.  After a lengthy wait amongst many sober, buzzed, getthing-there, & completely hammered patrons, I finally secured us a couple of pints of Young's Double Chocolate Stout, the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast.  Even after years of shameful dipsomania at UT & NYU, I do believe this was the first time I'd drunk beer at 645 in the morning.

God bless.

745 a.m.
Settling into my groove, next I tried a pint of Young's Royal Wedding Celebration beer, the Prince of Ales.  Here's to you, Kate & Wills.  Fi went for Thatcher's Gold, a sparkling cider produced in Somerset.  It's made by people who care.

845 a.m.
Last call at the KA, &, much to our dismay, most every other pub in town.  It's only responsible that beermen don't enable us by serving continuously all day, I guess.  Not having eaten anything substantial by then, Fi & I were in desperate need of some real vittles.

915 a.m.
We immediately thought of trying The Big Bang first.  It's a delightful sausage den on Walton Street, just down the road from OUP & within easy hike of the King's Arms.  Luckily, they were open & serving.

 Breakfast of Champions

1015 a.m.
Stuffed to the brim with eggs, beans, & bangers, Fi suggested we seek out some Morris dancing, an English folk custom which I'd yet to witness.  Oh man.  Was I in for a treat.  We consulted the interwebs, who advised us to hightail it for the landing in front of the Ashmolean, where cohorts of Morris dancers were scheduled to boogie down at 1030.

 Waving white flags?

1030 a.m.
Good Lord.

11 a.m.
Someone was even dressed as a tree.

That foliage is real!

1130 a.m.
More Morris dancing, for good measure:

12 p.m.
We'd done it up right for nearly 7 hours now, so after an action-packed antemeridiem, Fi & I rewarded ourselves with a little snooze at the apmt.  I'd appraise it a successful May Morning, with just the right balance of novelty, tradition, & strong drink.

That's all for now.  Thanks for tuning in!