amanda castleman

Oxford Mail
Millennium edition

Water, water everywhere
Amanda Castleman imagines commuting in aquatic Oxford, year 2300

Kent, East Anglia and
Hampshire went first,
slipping quietly under the
waves that Britannia once
ruled. The Garden of
England only produces
kelp and oysters now.

No time for breakfast, just soya milk gulped over the sink. Then out the door, into the kayak and off to work. It's like this every day, the morning traffic jam in Oxford. For centuries people have waited under the Gothic arches, cursing the narrow, winding passages and awkward one-way systems.

Of course, at the turn of the Millennium they sat idling in cars, spitting carbon dioxide and smudge, all the nasty chemicals that chewed through the ozone layer. Then came the global warming, the melting polar caps and the floods, which swamped most of Southern England.

Kent, East Anglia and Hampshire went first, slipping quietly under the waves that Britannia once ruled. The Garden of England only produces kelp and oysters now.

Didn't anyone stop and think, try to save the ozone layer? A chunk the size of Texas liquefied in just two decades, but they just kept squirting industrial pollution into the air, blithe and bonny. The warnings began back in 1999 but no one listened. Or maybe they just shrugged; not my problem...

It's my problem now, because I'm late for work and stuck in a bloody boat, not exactly the speediest mode of transport. They saved Oxford, naturally, when the sea levels rose. No one was going to allow the world's densest patch of Gothic architecture disappear like Atlantis. Without the University, who would train the future prime ministers about politics and pubs?

This is the land that inspired Hobbits, Narnia and Alice in Wonderland; housed Morrells Beer, Rover and the code-breakers at Bletchly Park; nurtured Winston Churchill, William Morris and Iris Murdock. My ancestors were hardly going to abandon such historic ground to the fish.

So they built dikes and dug canals, like Venice before it sunk. Now punting is practical, not pleasurable. Boating no longer means lazy wine-soaked afternoons on the Cherwell; pedalos, canoes, rowboats and jetskis cram the medieval waterways. This is our commute.

As usual, I'm late. My boss will give me a sideways glance and make a small puffing noise with her lips, indicating displeasure. She won't dare say anything though, because she's ashamed of her webbed feet.

I don't know why – they're a sign of aristocracy really, of our aquatic heritage. Before the flooding began, some clever families began buying and building boats. Maybe there was some toxin in the water back then, because after 100 years or so, the membranes appeared between their toes. No one quite understood why.

The webbing helps them swim, and has become a beauty mark of sorts, a sign of good breeding. Some wear translucent plastic shoes, toes splayed wide in ostentatious display. But my boss hides her feet, keeps them tucked under long, constantly damp skirts. She wants to earn her way on merit. This makes her shy and uncertain, and unable to properly scold a wayward underling.

Good thing. The traffic grows worse, as a glass-enclosed tourist bus blocks the High Canal. The landlubbers inside coo and point at the gargoyles, the morning mist that envelopes the spires, lit golden by the rising winter sun. A couple perform a long, slow movie kiss. Probably honeymooners. With Venice submerged, Oxford became the City of Love. Romance, combined with University, brought further infestations of dry-heeled tourists.

They take scuba tours of Wytham Abbey and the Rollright Stones, gaze dreamily into the Radcliffe Fountain and shriek at the virtual reality displays in the Ashmolean. My favourite shows a hypothetical tidal wave swamping the old city, the Sheldonian Theatre collapsing, Magdalene Tower overturned, ducks paddling round the tip of St Marys. It could have happened, the film concludes, without the wonder of engineering and canal-craft.

They managed to stave off the ocean, but not its influence. A seaside nonchalance overwhelmed the solemnity of academia and industry. Now floating arcades and candy floss stands line St Giles, distracted scholars wear life vests to tutorials and drunken undergraduates float sloppily downstream on Friday nights, giggling and shouting in giant innertubes. Fish and chips are everywhere, the air greasy.

The thickest smell is down in the old canal basin, where traditional narrowboats vend coffees, falafels, kebabs, jacket potatoes, prawns, paella, sushi and seaweed. The basin was paved over for a while, before the Millennium. I heard it was a parking lot back then, since it's so close to Gloucester Green and the train station. Park End Harbour it's called, though some wanted to name it after the celebrated detective Inspector Morse.

Excavating the basin revitalised the city, gave it an umbilicus, a focal point, somewhere for the English Language students to congregate. At early evening, the arched walkways are an international promenade. I try to avoid the scene with its cheap fairy lights, candy floss and tall dark handsome strangers. Boat people and dry-heels don't mix so well.
I suppose that's why I haven't moved to Edinburgh, the city in exile. The politicians and bankers needed firm ground under their feet when the Thames rose, an unstoppable flood.

Birmingham and Leeds lured some of the industrial contracts away, but the high-flyers came to roost in Scotland, solid and safe among the crags. On the shores of the Firth of Forth, the water seems manageable, a pretty vista rather than a national menace.

I had a job offer up there, even looked for a flat. I stumbled on the cobbled streets, the stretches of concrete enlivened only by solar cars. To an Oxford eye, the prospect was grim. I missed the soft slap of waves on Cotswold stone, the moonlight canals, the flotillas of swans. The people there were brisk and focused, barking witticisms in thick accents. I felt soft and southern and slow, left Caledonia for the dreaming spires.

I'm glad now, though I used to wonder about Sunday walkies and stationary houses. But I was born on a boat – stuck in a traffic jam like this one, in fact – and on a boat I'll stay.

The Romans rejected this place because the lowlands were damp and marshy. What fools. There lies its beauty.

Pity we had to destroy the ozone layer to see it.

Drunken undergraduates
float sloppily downstream
on Friday nights, giggling
and shouting in giant
innertubes. Fish and
chips are everywhere,
the air greasy.

I missed the soft
slap of waves on
Cotswold stone, the
moonlight canals, the
flotillas of swans.

I felt soft and southern
and slow, left Caledonia
for the dreaming spires.

Back to the portfolio

Oxford Mail Millennium edition		Water, water everywhere Amanda Castleman imagines commuting in aquatic Oxford, year 2300
Kent, East Anglia and Hampshire went first, slipping quietly under the waves that Britannia once ruled. The Garden of England only produces kelp and oysters now.		No time for breakfast, just soya milk gulped over the sink. Then out the door, into the kayak and off to work. It's like this every day, the morning traffic jam in Oxford. For centuries people have waited under the Gothic arches, cursing the narrow, winding passages and awkward one-way systems. Of course, at the turn of the Millennium they sat idling in cars, spitting carbon dioxide and smudge, all the nasty chemicals that chewed through the ozone layer. Then came the global warming, the melting polar caps and the floods, which swamped most of Southern England. Kent, East Anglia and Hampshire went first, slipping quietly under the waves that Britannia once ruled. The Garden of England only produces kelp and oysters now. Didn't anyone stop and think, try to save the ozone layer? A chunk the size of Texas liquefied in just two decades, but they just kept squirting industrial pollution into the air, blithe and bonny. The warnings began back in 1999 but no one listened. Or maybe they just shrugged; not my problem... It's my problem now, because I'm late for work and stuck in a bloody boat, not exactly the speediest mode of transport. They saved Oxford, naturally, when the sea levels rose. No one was going to allow the world's densest patch of Gothic architecture disappear like Atlantis. Without the University, who would train the future prime ministers about politics and pubs? This is the land that inspired Hobbits, Narnia and Alice in Wonderland; housed Morrells Beer, Rover and the code-breakers at Bletchly Park; nurtured Winston Churchill, William Morris and Iris Murdock. My ancestors were hardly going to abandon such historic ground to the fish. So they built dikes and dug canals, like Venice before it sunk. Now punting is practical, not pleasurable. Boating no longer means lazy wine-soaked afternoons on the Cherwell; pedalos, canoes, rowboats and jetskis cram the medieval waterways. This is our commute. As usual, I'm late. My boss will give me a sideways glance and make a small puffing noise with her lips, indicating displeasure. She won't dare say anything though, because she's ashamed of her webbed feet. I don't know why – they're a sign of aristocracy really, of our aquatic heritage. Before the flooding began, some clever families began buying and building boats. Maybe there was some toxin in the water back then, because after 100 years or so, the membranes appeared between their toes. No one quite understood why. The webbing helps them swim, and has become a beauty mark of sorts, a sign of good breeding. Some wear translucent plastic shoes, toes splayed wide in ostentatious display. But my boss hides her feet, keeps them tucked under long, constantly damp skirts. She wants to earn her way on merit. This makes her shy and uncertain, and unable to properly scold a wayward underling. Good thing. The traffic grows worse, as a glass-enclosed tourist bus blocks the High Canal. The landlubbers inside coo and point at the gargoyles, the morning mist that envelopes the spires, lit golden by the rising winter sun. A couple perform a long, slow movie kiss. Probably honeymooners. With Venice submerged, Oxford became the City of Love. Romance, combined with University, brought further infestations of dry-heeled tourists. They take scuba tours of Wytham Abbey and the Rollright Stones, gaze dreamily into the Radcliffe Fountain and shriek at the virtual reality displays in the Ashmolean. My favourite shows a hypothetical tidal wave swamping the old city, the Sheldonian Theatre collapsing, Magdalene Tower overturned, ducks paddling round the tip of St Marys. It could have happened, the film concludes, without the wonder of engineering and canal-craft. They managed to stave off the ocean, but not its influence. A seaside nonchalance overwhelmed the solemnity of academia and industry. Now floating arcades and candy floss stands line St Giles, distracted scholars wear life vests to tutorials and drunken undergraduates float sloppily downstream on Friday nights, giggling and shouting in giant innertubes. Fish and chips are everywhere, the air greasy. The thickest smell is down in the old canal basin, where traditional narrowboats vend coffees, falafels, kebabs, jacket potatoes, prawns, paella, sushi and seaweed. The basin was paved over for a while, before the Millennium. I heard it was a parking lot back then, since it's so close to Gloucester Green and the train station. Park End Harbour it's called, though some wanted to name it after the celebrated detective Inspector Morse. Excavating the basin revitalised the city, gave it an umbilicus, a focal point, somewhere for the English Language students to congregate. At early evening, the arched walkways are an international promenade. I try to avoid the scene with its cheap fairy lights, candy floss and tall dark handsome strangers. Boat people and dry-heels don't mix so well. I suppose that's why I haven't moved to Edinburgh, the city in exile. The politicians and bankers needed firm ground under their feet when the Thames rose, an unstoppable flood. Birmingham and Leeds lured some of the industrial contracts away, but the high-flyers came to roost in Scotland, solid and safe among the crags. On the shores of the Firth of Forth, the water seems manageable, a pretty vista rather than a national menace. I had a job offer up there, even looked for a flat. I stumbled on the cobbled streets, the stretches of concrete enlivened only by solar cars. To an Oxford eye, the prospect was grim. I missed the soft slap of waves on Cotswold stone, the moonlight canals, the flotillas of swans. The people there were brisk and focused, barking witticisms in thick accents. I felt soft and southern and slow, left Caledonia for the dreaming spires. I'm glad now, though I used to wonder about Sunday walkies and stationary houses. But I was born on a boat – stuck in a traffic jam like this one, in fact – and on a boat I'll stay. The Romans rejected this place because the lowlands were damp and marshy. What fools. There lies its beauty. Pity we had to destroy the ozone layer to see it.

Drunken undergraduates float sloppily downstream on Friday nights, giggling and shouting in giant innertubes. Fish and chips are everywhere, the air greasy.
I missed the soft slap of waves on Cotswold stone, the moonlight canals, the flotillas of swans. I felt soft and southern and slow, left Caledonia for the dreaming spires.
		*Back to the portfolio*