Adam Brown

Location

The Covered Market, its environs and the City of Oxford

Resume

I use every excuse possible to visit the market for a week.  My boss at work needs a picture framing?  I know a very good place…  Don’t worry, I’ll go.  I smile and leave work carrying a huge print of Christ Church.

I make my way up Cornmarket, a busy pedestrian street, nowadays selling redemption, rather than corn.  A man jumps out at me, attempts to thrust a pamphlet into my hand, not deterred by the huge picture I’m carrying.  “Have you thought about God, sir?”  I brush him aside.  Barely ten yards and another one’s onto me “Thought about Jesus sir?”

Finally I make it to ‘Oxford’s famous Covered Market’ as local radio adverts pronounce.  First stop ‘The Framery’ – difficult to miss with its windows crammed full of paintings and photographs of iconic Oxford buildings.  The Radcliffe Camera’s image must adorn every tourist’s home.

Inside, its wooden slatted walls make it resemble a beach hut.  The stereo blasts as a young man excitedly takes my order.  “Ok, so what we’re going to do is frame this mother. We’ll give it a sub-mounted aspect ratio frame, with hermetically sealed glass and a super pronated hook.” I think is what he said.  It doesn’t matter really.  I agree to everything he suggests and pay with the company credit card.

Time for refreshment.  A cup of Assam tea, in a jolly red cup and saucer at Brothers Café.  With seating inside, or out for those with continental pretensions.  I opt for outside, although it feels a bit silly with people shopping next to me, like setting up a deckchair in Debenhams.

A group of foreign exchange students amble past, filling the aisle.  I look down and realise I’ve subconsciously pocketed my mobile phone.  I feel a little guilty.

A man walks past with two toddlers, his warnings not go run away go unheeded.  They laugh joyfully as they play.  Laughter is broken by sudden screams, one fell over.  The man shakes his head.

‘Brothers’ becomes my base during the next week.  Over the days I notice two guys are regulars.  If they aren’t on a rival screenwriting course, then maybe one of them has a thing for the waitress?  They talk in hushed tones as she comes over to take their order.

The Covered Market was built in 1774 to house Oxford’s frightful sounding street vending butchers, who apparently sold their carcasses from stalls on the street to passers by.  Today you are more likely to find designer jewellery or ladies wot lunch, than flesh.

Four butchers remain.  A sign hangs from Hedges Butchers by a short length of rope at one end, making it slant.  The sign reads that it was established in 1896, wonder how long it’s hung lop-sided?  It could have been the owner’s father, or grandfather who repaired that sign.  They always meant to fix it properly… The owner declines to comment and appears strangely hurt.  I buy some chicken by way of apology.

As I walk on, a butcher, carrying half of a Damien Hirsted cow, almost walks into me with it.

It’s easy to get lost in the market – all of the lanes look the same, with similar shops, butchers, cafes, jewellers, toy shops, fashionable clothing and shoe stores.

It begins to rain; it hammers on the roof, making it feel as though you’re shopping in a tent.  I begin to make my way out towards the rear of the market.  As I approach the cheese counter I see rain water running across the entrance like a waterfall.  I decide not to venture out just yet.

There’s a strong smell.  I look up to see the Oxford Cheese Company, vendors of original Oxford Blue.  The girl serving mentions to a customer that she’s vegetarian.  I wonder how she would get on with the butcher - what’s her opinion on the use of rennet to make cheese?

On Market Street I see that the rain is pouring over the side of the gutters, probably blocked by the leaves from college garden trees.  It splatters onto the pavement and pools up around drains.  The city, with it’s own Bridge of Sighs resembles Venice in the rain, the streets flowing with rain water.

A toddler in pink with a dummy, proudly stomps past, while a younger sibling is carted in a pram, coughing a little in his sleep.  The toddler glares at the damp world as if to say “I stood up for this?!”

Market Street is the service road of the Covered Market.  White vans reverse with a beep, over weight men in dirty aprons stand around the entrance smoking cigarettes, swapping banter and laughing.  A man pulls a palette along the pavement and steers into the market.

A toddler teases a pigeon.  The pigeon backs into a corner.  The toddle runs after it, blocking its exit.  There is a flurry of feathers as they beat against his face.  Parents watch, as I do, nervously assuming the worst and wondering how sharp its beak is.  The child bursts out laughing, relieved laughter flows from us as the pigeon flies away.

High Street – ‘The High’, a busy artery running between the medieval college buildings, feeding the hungry town with bus-loads of tourists, with their dollars, euros and yen.

I turn up early at 8am one day to watch people unloading.  I sit outside and watch the delivery men park their lorries and over-sized white vans on Market Street, lugging boxes inside.  Thankfully my offer of help is refused.

At 9am the shops open.  Late staff members push past early birds searching for that worm.

Children in a pram scream like the siren on an ambulance.  I duck into Morton’s café for a cup of English Breakfast.  I feel I’ve been spoilt at Brothers.  The tea bag is left in the mug, which is sloshed onto a tray and pushed across the counter towards me.  The portion of UHT milk spills onto my trousers as I open it.  Not to worry though, I already have hot tea on me, if anything it may help quell the scolding… it doesn’t.

During a walking tour of the town I learn more about Oxford’s past:

Carfax Tower – The St. Scholastica Day riot of 1355, when some students in the Swindlestock Tavern complained about the quality of wine, a fight broke out between the townsfolk and the students.  The University won (hardly surprising given their crenellated colleges) and every year until 1825 the mayor and councillors had to pay a fine to the University in recompense.

Next to Queen’s Lane Coffee House, which claims to be Europe’s oldest (1654), a good place to stop for refreshment – a pot of tea in a fancy glass mug.

I talk to David Palfreyman, Bursar of New College, about the history of his college.  Founded in 1379 it was actually one of the earliest colleges, despite its misleading name.  On it’s foundation, it was one of the richest organisations in the land and lent £100 to the King towards the Hundred Years war.  When he started as bursar, David discovered that the King never repaid his loan.  He invoiced the Queen for the amount plus interest, which brought it over £1m.  HRH sent a royal deer to New College along with a note thanking Mr. Palfreyman for his astute bookkeeping and stating that they were now quits.

Turl Street, off Market Street, has four colleges, including Exeter College (Jordan College in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy) and several old Oxford shops, such as Walters, a gentleman’s outfitters selling academic gowns to dons.

Radcliffe Square the heart of the University, containing the Radcliffe Camera, a huge circular reading room of the Bodleian Library and Oxford’s most photographed landmark.

At night the Covered Market closes.  I walk the side streets, sit in Radcliffe Square marvelling at the quiet of a place so alive by day.  I leave by Brasenose Lane, where Edward Trafford, President of the Hell-fire Club met his death in the 19^th century, pulled through the bars of his window by Satan claiming his soul.

I take a bus from Blackbird Leys, one of Europe’s largest council estates, where a friend lives who’s a butcher in the Covered Market.

The bus takes me down Cowley Road, through the vibrant east Oxford community where I lived when I first moved here.  The mosque, the graffiti covered houses, the Jamaican bar that refuses to close.

We drive around the plain, over Magdalen Bridge, which students leap from in dress clothes on May Day morning while the choristers of Magdalen College sing in the dawn.

I walk through the Golden Cross, a former tavern where Othello was first performed, now an arcade attached to the Market, stopping for a quick cup of tea at Café Puccinos, I’m parched.

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