I took a bus to Oxford , and then another out to my next Servas host's house, in a little town called Eynsham. She was a sweet old lady, who, despite my short notice in coming, welcomed me with a pot of tea when I arrived, bedraggled and sleepy on a Sunday night. She told me all about her travels around the world, and about the thousands of people she knows in every possible corner of the globe. Everything in her house was a gift from 'such and such from Romania', or 'so and so from a little village in India.' I had no exciting gifts for her, but told her all about the 'far away mountain' I live on top of and she kindly oohed and ahhed as though it were interestingly exotic.
Walking around the village with her early the next morning, I felt like I was in the Secret Garden. Stone walls covered in ivy closed in gardens of moss and creeping fern, sparrows jumped across the earth, and sun filtered through the vines and tangled flowers.I could have fallen asleep standing it was so quiet.

Oxford itself was grand and great, intellectual and foreboding. I wandered around the colleges, deciding which I Iiked best for when the letter came offering me a place there, begging my acceptance. They're all quite pretty, I'll have to flip a coin.
It was a little like old movies, with the students riding around the cobbled streets on bicycles with baskets on the front.
The range of bookshops is quite impressive, and all were cluttered with students, with achievement on their minds. I felt like reading Proust and writing a thesis. But I didn't.
In Eynsham the next day, I sampled the many pubs, met some interesting locals, then went to a nearby town, Witney, where I sampled their pubs and met some interesting locals. Valdis, my host, took me for a drive around many of the Cotswold villages, which I had wanted to see, but forgotten about. They were all nice, and had sweet names like Windrush, and Moreton on Marsh. I liked Burford, where you can stand at the top of a hill at the mouth of the village and look down over all the crooked houses, with their shingled roofs and jutting out windows leaning crazily downhill.
We went out for dinner, at the nicest Indian restaurant I've yet encountered and she told me more stories about her globetrotting, and her international network of friends. To have as many stories as she has would be impressive, but I suppose I have a lifetime yet to acquire them if I wish...