Part I  Cornwall 

(I started writing this post 2 wks ago when these memories were still fresh; however, I have been too absorbed with school and daily life to complete it. So here it is, a bit late and perhaps a bit rusty.)

I returned to England on 2 January, after a short holiday back home, to a week of intensive reading and writing to compensate for the lack of work accomplished over the holidays, and to allow me another sojourn the following and last week before term. Prior to the break, I and my three roommates had discussed travelling to Cornwall for a few days of revitalizing sea air. Unlike so many other idyllic plans which fail to be realized, we took the necessary steps to actualize our Cornwall adventure; we booked a cottage, and organized our transportation.

Thus a week after arriving back in England, I found myself repacking and setting out for the West. Cars being so much smaller here than in North America, it took a lot of creative manipulation to load four bodies, their necessary possessions, one dog (borrowed from a roommate's family), its paraphernalia, and the other required provisions acquired along the way, into our means of transportation. However, having accomplished this multiple times, as each stop necessitated, we finally reached West Cottage, Pentireglaze Haven, our final destination in North Cornwall. The last leg of our journey had seemed to stretch on into eternity as we travelled narrow roads, barely wide enough for one vehicle, in a thick blanket of fog.

Hours later, car unpacked, cottage explored, filled with good wine and good food, we sat in front of the fire dozing off to sleep.

There is something in the air near the sea that toys with my emotions. This may sound funny, but on all the occasions that have brought me to the sea, I find my self repeatedly reflective and philosophical. The smallness of man is so evident as one surveys the ocean, but this realization also brings with it, for me, an incredible peace. This trip was no different. I woke the morning after our late night arrival filled with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning, and ran to my window seat, rubbed the pane and peered out at the sea. Then, pajama clad, I raced down the stairs and out the front door over the fields to the sea. One of my roommates had followed, and the two of us frolicked in the waves along with the dog much to the entertainment of more reserved early morning beach walkers. Salty and soaked, we returned to West Cottage for tea and breakfast.

A Glimpse of the Sea from my Bedroom Window

As it was the middle of winter there were few tourists travelling the seaside paths and climbing the cliffs that bank the sea. The next few days were spent, one could say idly, but I prefer to say they were spent reflectively—a retreat into nature.

The Sea

Cornwall Walks

Part II  Subsidiarity's Last Stand. 

On the last full day we spent in Cornwall we decided to talk a long hike along a coastal path that, according to our maps, led to a small historic fishing village. It was already noon by the time we set out but we had determined that the two-and-a half-mile walk to the village, a quick snack, and the walk back, could be accomplished before the daylight passed. We set out. As we proceeded up craggy hills and round bends, each new view we beheld seemed more beautiful than the last. Finally, two hours and many photo stops later, we reached the "historic fishing town" hungry and hoping to find a welcoming pub. However, this village consisted of two or three little cottages and a wharf. Luckily we found a woman who was just leaving in her car and inquired as to the next nearest village. We were told Port Isaac was only half a mile away if we traveled the farmer's fields instead of the coastal path. Decided on this course of action, we recommenced our walking, driven on by our hunger. Finally, an hour later, thinking we were lost, I climbed atop a farmer's wall all overgrown with grass, and down the hill nestled in a little bay I beheld Port Isaac. I shouted with glee, and climbed back down. We began to trundle down the hill towards the village. Entering the village, I could smell the sea and noted the fishing boats moored in the harbour. It did not take us long to find a pub, which we all entered, dog included, to order pints of beer and cider and sit down, warming ourselves in front of the fire.

Port Isaac

The pub was not very crowded, as it was only about four at the time. However, apart from ourselves it was all local people who knew each other. The lady behind the bar was friendly and gave us the number for a cab to enable us to get back to our cottage by nightfall, as the pub owner came down the stairs from his living quarters and greeted us. Much revived after our pints, we traveled home.

Back in Oxford, and term begun, I was talking to a friend about his break spent here in Oxford. We sat having a pint in the beer garden of the Rose and Crown; he was telling me of the many nights he had enjoyed there over the holiday. He now knew the owner by name, and had even experienced a lock-in. A lock-in occurs when an a given night at closing time the pub owner locks those at the pub in, and they continue talking, drinking, and making merry. By locking the door the pub abides by the law that such establishments close at eleven. Those remaining within the locked pub are reasoned to no longer be in a public place, but present as the guests of the pub owner.

Soon after this encounter with my friend at Oxford's Rose and Crown, I was at another Rose and Crown, the pub in the Cotswold town of Charlbury. I had gone to Charlbury to visit a friend and we walked down to the pub on Saturday night for some live music and a few pints. In this pub I was the anomaly; everyone knew each other, those working behind the bar, and those being served at it. However, a few beers and songs later I was chatting amongst these people of all ages, while the pub owner's dogs moved in and out between the patrons' legs.

I sketch these three pub stories not to demonstrate how much I am drinking here in England, or how much others drink. Rather, as I was in the Rose and Crown in Charlbury it struck me that British pubs were really one of the last examples of successful small business and subsidiarity in action in our modern culture.

The Rose and Crown Oxford, North Parade

The pub owner, can make a successful living owning his own pub and interacting with his neighbours. Moreover, he can, to a certain extent, execute authority at the proper level by hosting a "lock-in." Even in a town, or rather city, the size of Oxford people have their local pub where they know others and are known. One can go in alone and have a pint and a word with the pub keeper, or one can go in with a group of friends. The service pubs offer is to the immediate community and the atmosphere created is one of an age largely past when people talked and met each other without prearranging it via text or Facebook, when young talked to old and proprietor to worker. Life in the pub is still lived at the local level.