April 25, 2022: Alvescot College

As Alan and I were working on the cistern today, I was thinking of Alvescot College, in England. Some of the houses in Alvescot had big old wooden, moss-covered cisterns on their roofs and in their backyards. There was no central water there. https://www.british-history.ac.uk/vch/oxon/vol15/pp8-17

In 1971, toward the end of my junior year of high school at George School in Newtown, PA, I was offered a scholarship to Alvescot College, a 2-year experimental college conceived by Oxford and Rutgers Universities. It was designed to bring students with certain talents together to learn and work on bringing classic English Lit into “modern” technology, with the ultimate goal of creating new BBC productions. (And it did….the surge of new BBC stuff in the late 70’s were partly a result of Alvescot’s work). Hating George School, and knowing my parents were moving to England in the fall, I jumped at the opportunity. I arrived in mid-April, midway through the “Hilary Term” (spring). Next came Trinity Term (summer).

I was given a lovely suite of rooms to myself at the manor (upper right corner of the picture above). Every other day, a local farmer delivered fresh milk, eggs, butter, cheese and veggies to my room. I lived on salads and omelets. Otherwise, meals were served in the dining hall by a French chef. There were about 25 students and a half-dozen professors, mostly TAs from Oxford. I was one of only 2 Americans. The other students came from all over the globe: Fawaz from Lebanon, Sinclair from New Zealand. One kid was the son of the local Lord. We were all 17-19 years old. My classes included “Classical English Literature and the Environment”, (we did a lot of cemetery rubbings), “John Donne to Music”, and, the best, “Philology and Culture”, taught by J.R.R. Tolkien. Classes were held in the standard small seminar format of Oxford. You were expected to be prepared to discuss your assignment intelligently and thoroughly with 4-6 others. The professor moved things along and added critique and ideas. Wish all education was done this way.

I spent most of the summer walking the mile or so across the village, past the pub, to the classrooms, then back for lunch, then back to class, then back for dinner. Wonderful! Lots of Lager & Limes. I gained 10 beer pounds that summer. The pub was tiny, had a dirt floor and a dart board, and kept its beer in old wooden kegs buried in the dirt behind a makeshift bar.

For our time with Tolkien, his TA drove us to Tolkien’s cottage home not far away, where we sat in the backyard if the weather was nice, or in his study if not. The author was close to the end of his life, and nearly wheelchair-bound, yet was sharp as could be, causticly witty, and demanding of us. We talked about language and how it affects culture, about how and why words matter. Heady stuff. You had to have your comments well thought out, speak succinctly and with a point, or he pooh-poohed you and went on. I was pretty intimidated, but tried to say coherent things. Amazingly, I was the only student who had read the LOTR books (multiple times, even) so could speak to them a bit and that helped. A few topiaries of hobbits and elves (I think) perched in the yard, and his office was a mess of papers, teetering on chairs and bookcases. His son Christopher came by a few times. We always had tea, served by his caretaker; his sister, maybe?

It was the only class I took seriously, although I liked them all. I was into my Jane Eyre/Elven phase and wore a long flowing black skirt, black blouse, black/green cape, black Birkenstocks, and smoked a (real) pipe with cherry tobacco that I bought locally. I never inhaled (!) but loved the smell. I had a beloved baby blue corduroy jean jacket, too. I smoked a lot of weed, and had a crush on one of the instructors, a 28 year-old musician named T. who was the music manager at a popular club called The Troubadour in London (https://www.troubadourlondon.com/).

Alvescot was a stunning place, and I spent hours wandering the fields and hills, walking along the ancient stone walls. I spent a few afternoons helping a farmer rebuild a 300 year-old stone fence for his sheep. I fished on the river, drank illegal Anisette, and drove to London with T. We hitchhiked to Edinburgh for 5 days of fun. What a beautiful city. Still one of my favorites.

Toward the end of August, T. left me for another, telling me he’d used me as a cover for his gay life. I was heartbroken. I started missing classes, spending my time playing with the darts team at the pub in the afternoons. I never missed a class with Tolkien, though.

In mid-September, 2 local Bobbies, both on the darts team, came to my room and arrested me. I was charged with selling pot. I hadn’t been selling. The seller was the son of the local Lord. But I was a convenient fall-guy, so it was me. The Bobbies apologized and said it wasn’t anything personal, just politics. I was a good dart player and they would miss me at the tournament. They took my passport, and hustled me to Heathrow leaving all my stuff behind, including my guitar. I was placed on the plane and told not to come back.

Once home, well, things went from bad to worse. My parents left for England the following week, on the cruise ship QEII. What happened next is another story. My father managed to get me another passport by Christmas, but the college never let me return, even though they acknowledged that I’d been “framed”.

I think of those few months with great fondness. I may have stayed in England if it had worked out. But maybe not.