at the tower and spied the bible-black streak of the canal boat, wrapped in a copper-green winter shroud. Oxford’s oddballs don’t shout and boast, they hide away on Folly Island and the green tunnels of the river twists with their imported gondolas. I might have to buy a stand-up paddleboard and perfect the art of reading MacNeice, nonchalant, between elegant strokes. Oxford river cranks, I salute you.
