I've varied my walking commute recently, to minimise exposure to pollution. So now, instead of trundling up one of Oxford's main arteries to my office I instead hold my breath, scoot across the road (it has heavy enough traffic that some days I start coughing as I approach it) and follow an off-road route down a tow-path, across a footbridge, through a small estate and up through a shopping centre. No pollution.
This route, like some bits of Oxford are, is a bit of a dizzying contrast. Vast homes of the super-rich, tiny, exquisitely refitted Victorian houses, college accommodation, and then, bomf, the estate, a block of basic maisonettes surrounded by a brown brick aggregation of teeny-tiny social houses. The estate has its own greenery aesthetic; privacy screens of tough cheerful shrubs, beloved of the sparrows that squat in the soffits, smart little trees that'll look good under all conditions and never menace a foundation, cheerful bulbs on grassy banks, small gardens in every state from entirely wild to limitless ambition and safe, tough climbers that soften the high walls and communal garages:
It's a pretty nice place, for sparrows and people. Residents feed the ducks and pigeons and cats wander the balconies, and people get on with their lives. And then, five minutes walk away, there is another city in the city:
This is the gown to the town, a world behind barred gates and curtain walls. A world to which I kind of have access, and kind of don't; a world of secret private intensely planted gardens where sun-warmed golden stone reflects back on unwalked-on grass and traditional borders, formal even when informal, tastefully planted and weeded with great care.
I'm very impressed by these trees. Some years it just seems like everyone is espaliering everything. 2019 is definitely one of those years.
This route, like some bits of Oxford are, is a bit of a dizzying contrast. Vast homes of the super-rich, tiny, exquisitely refitted Victorian houses, college accommodation, and then, bomf, the estate, a block of basic maisonettes surrounded by a brown brick aggregation of teeny-tiny social houses. The estate has its own greenery aesthetic; privacy screens of tough cheerful shrubs, beloved of the sparrows that squat in the soffits, smart little trees that'll look good under all conditions and never menace a foundation, cheerful bulbs on grassy banks, small gardens in every state from entirely wild to limitless ambition and safe, tough climbers that soften the high walls and communal garages:
It's a pretty nice place, for sparrows and people. Residents feed the ducks and pigeons and cats wander the balconies, and people get on with their lives. And then, five minutes walk away, there is another city in the city:
This is the gown to the town, a world behind barred gates and curtain walls. A world to which I kind of have access, and kind of don't; a world of secret private intensely planted gardens where sun-warmed golden stone reflects back on unwalked-on grass and traditional borders, formal even when informal, tastefully planted and weeded with great care.
I'm very impressed by these trees. Some years it just seems like everyone is espaliering everything. 2019 is definitely one of those years.
No comments:
Post a Comment