Oxford, is made of “colleges”. Not the colleges we know. These are more like walled areas of town, build by church bishops in the 12th century as a combination dorm, cathedral, and cafeteria. Each college has its own personality. Some large, some small, and but all have a feeling of stepping back in time. When a professor is assigned to a “college”, he may live on the grounds or not. Either way, he tutors students and is responsible for their success. He is called a fellow and it’s very prestigious. The fellows equate colleges to a “frat house”, which should explain a bit about what occurs there when they are not tutoring, holding choir practice, or eating, all of which they do with ceremony and costume. There are also guest quarters for visiting guests, dignitaries, and prospective fellows.
Mike, the prospective fellow, and I were invited to stay at Magdalen (MAWD-lin) College. When we arrived, we did everything possible to embarrass ourselves. This included picture taking, staring with mouths agape, pointing, and finally standing still doing all things at the same time in the middle of the courtyard, like small children.
Everything seemed unreal, from the door men, called “porters”, who greeted us with “Mornin’ Governa ‘nd Ow are you toda Misses?”, to our dinner at the college.
Mike’s future boss, Constantin invited us to “high table”, apparently this is a semi-formal dinner. When we accepted the invitation we had no idea what that would mean. All we knew is we needed to dress in business casual and wait near the Porters.
Constantin, a Fellow at Magdalen College, arrived late. He was so charming in his Harry Potter cloak, as he introduced himself, made his apologies and explained that we must hurry. Then we dashed off across the courtyard and around a corner, through a locked door and up a flight of stone stairs to a room filled with artifacts. I noticed six other people already there, all wearing black cloaks too. Just as we walked in, they started to move towards a small door at the far end of the room. Constantin said, “we are just in time, follow me”.
There was no time to think, I followed him and Mike followed me to the far end of the room up a small wooden set of stairs and out the door to a rush of wind. As he walked out Constantin made a sharp left turn, looked back over his shoulder and said, “look to your left and you’ll get a great view of your room”.
I took a few steps out the door and suddenly realized we were on the roof. The spires and gargoyles that were once three stories above me were an arms length to my left. The sun was setting over the courtyard and I could indeed see the window of my room, across the green grass and on the second floor and far below. Slate roof tiles angling sharply were now to our right. Holy cow! What was I walking on? Below my feet, two narrow, weather worn, old, grey planks of wood that flexed with each footstep. There was no time to be afraid of heights. No time to recognize the safety issues of this situation. It wasn’t more than 5 paces before I noticed the group ahead of me was disappearing.
I didn’t see a door but I read Harry Potter. I knew as long as you walk really fast, walls turn into magical doors. This must be why everyone was walking so quickly. That or they were as chilly I was on the windy rooftop.
A moment later I saw it. In front of Constantin there was a small wooden door hidden in a crevice between the stone building and the stained glass bay window. Three more steps and I was there. At 5 foot two I needed to bend down to walk inside but once I did, I was shrouded by darkness.
I could hear Constantin say, “step down” and so I did. There were four old wooden stairs and as my eyes adjusted to the dark room and sudden silence, I could hear nothing but the footsteps of my fellow travelers. I was sure we were alone.
I held onto the wall and turned a sharp corner to my left, and was comforted by the familiar sight of the parade of cloaks billowing in front of me, lit by silver candelabras on a long antique wooden table to my right.
Then one by one the cloaked figures peeled off and stopped by chairs. I just followed Constantin. At this point, I had proven I would follow him off roofs or through walls. I hoped next would not be off a bridge.
Finally, the silence was broken with Constantin pointing Mike and I to our chairs and he said, “Wait until the gavel sounds before you sit”. Then a man to my left stuck the gavel; we sat.
I looked around to see the room. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. I recognized everything but nothing seemed real.
I was sitting at the long antique King Arthur type table lit by candles, with silver goblets, set for kings. I recognized the people sitting at my table as the cloaked travelers, carefully arranged boy, girl, boy, girl. The room was dark wood paneled and high above was large portraits and stained glass windows.
Our table was set on a platform, like a stage, and it overlooked a sea of finely dressed students at their own long wooden tables lit by candles. The room was eerily familiar. I had seen this before. I read the books and loved the movies. This was the dining room in Harry Potter. There was no way I should be sitting at the professor’s table. There most be a mistake.
I tried to play it cool. I didn’t want to get kicked out. It was soon clear my easy-going laid-back, laissez-faire attitude didn’t fool Constantin, when he leaned over and said, “Yes, they filmed Harry Potter in this room”.
Then Constantin whispered the next instruction, “The leader will say a prayer and hit the gavel. That’s when we can speak freely”. Prayer, gavel, and then pandemonium as the entire room erupted in conversation simultaneously.
Constantin said something about wine, I nodded, he poured, and the first course was placed. The food was colorful. I would tell you more but I was suffering from over-stimulation, as I tried to absorb where I was and what was happening around me.
Clearly accustomed to dining with people in shock, Constantin shared stories of kings, country, and tradition. Before I knew it three courses and a bottle of wine had been consumed.
Then came more instructions. “When you hear the gavel, hold onto your napkin, stand, step back, and follow me. We will go to another room to share another dessert”. As ominous as that sounded, I wasn’t about to question it after a bottle of wine. Sure enough, gavel, silence, and with napkin clenched in hand the cloaked parade exited the room, past silenced students standing at attention.
Out a gigantic wooden door, down wide-worn stone stairs and through a massive stone tunnel, the cloaked group moved quickly. Their path was familiar to them, worn into the ancient uneven giant stone bricks, but treacherous to me after the wine. I tried not to trip scurrying along like a child among giants. With every step the drunken group’s conversation became louder and more boisterous, evoking the memory of 700 years of men and women that have walked on these stones drunk before us.
A quick step to the right and we walked in a old wooden door, up a twisted stone staircase, and at the top of the stairs, Constanin turned with more instruction, “when you walk in the room wait. You will be given instruction where you sit”. I had no idea what that would mean.
I can’t tell you the size of the room or what hung on the wall. There was simply one small candelabra sitting in the center of a “T” shaped table set for 12 lighting the room. Seven of us stood holding our napkins, waiting seat assignments. I sat between Constanin and the Priest. Mike sat far far away. We were told this room was called the “summer room” but no one knew why.
If dinner was at Hogwarts, dessert was a visit to Catherine the Great’s 18th century England. This was how I pictured English aristocracy. Clenching my napkin, I sat at an antique table, dressed in the finest dinnerware, over flowing with chocolates, bowls of fruits, truffles, and petit fours.
The Priest announced there would be three passes of the spirits and with that, crystal carafes moved around the table. When they reached me, I read the silver chains around them, Port, Madeira, and Moscato. At that moment, I was ever so grateful I studied in my culinary school wine class.
The conversations traveled from politics, science, the cost of living, and a strange story about a nun who rented rooms to single men. My favorite story was about CS Lewis’s room, the author of “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”. While one of our guests was staying in the very room in which he wrote that story, our fellow guest actually broke the wardrobe.
When the third glass of after-dinner drinks was passed, the Priest stood and carried a very ornate wooden box to the gentleman across from me and said, “snuff?” I was sure I had misheard. I’ve been to many types of parties in my life and in those parties many things have been passed around but never anything called “snuff”. But sure enough, the gentleman said “Thank you, yes.” and was offered two different varieties.
I must confess, until this moment, I had only seen snuff in classic Hollywood movies and the old king would sniff and sneeze. Here the two younger men sniffed but only one sneezed. The rest of us, declined. Much later I goggled “snuff”, and after scrolling past some graphic definitions regarding movies, I discovered it was finely ground smokeless tobacco. This was much less exotic than I hoped.
All too quickly, this was over. The Priest put out the candles and our napkins were left behind. As we left the stately room, Constanin said “There is one more stop this evening”. This time the group moved more slowly, talked more loudly, and the group no longer resembled anything like a parade. Our next destination was the original room, the one with the small door to the roof.
When we entered, Constanin offered coffee and tea and we were given a personal tour of the antiquities. As he handed out exquisite china to hold ordinary liquid, Constanin explained he lived in 7 countries but what he loved about Oxford was that history was something you lived in and experienced, not something behind glass. Then he brought us inches from original artwork from the masters. We touched furniture over 500 years old. We held books dating back hundreds of years. Finally, because of my decade of charitable work, I was handed a Nobel peace prize. Then Constanin made me give it back.
As quickly as the night began, it was over. We said our farewells and quietly walked back to our room.
About 3 am, I woke from a really strange dream. I had to laugh a bit. No matter how strange my dreams may ever be again, they will pale in comparison to walking across a roof to dinner.
