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‘We must save Port Meadow’

Port Meadow has always been as close to my heart as to my muddy running shoes. The pleasure to be derived from escaping from the buzzing student swarm to burst onto a wide-open expanse of water and sky is unparalleled, and it’s there for free. Port Meadow has been ours since the 10th century, when it was bestowed upon the “Freemen of Oxford” as a gift, in return for their valiant help in battle against some invading Danes. Not many cities can boast a royal gift from King Alfred the Great that has endured to this day to be enjoyed by man and beast alike. Every citizen of Oxford has the right to graze his livestock on the grassy field, hence the high population of resident ponies, cows and other unidentifiable creatures, whose right to be there is sanctified in the Domesday book of 1086.

So imagine my shock when, trudging out to the wild space for a daily nature fix, I found five illegible pieces of paper pinned to the gate. Actually I was not so much shocked as confused and intimidated. What were these official-looking, legal-smelling and doom-tasting forms doing on the gateway to my sanctuary?

I was soon enlightened by a rugged passerby and his dog: it is a proposal order from Chiltern Railways to expand the railway line between Oxford and Bicester. This expansion would cut off a crucial patch of the territory, meaning that walkers and lovers of the field would no longer be able to pass through it to the nature reserve, and that the vegetable allotments would also become inaccessible from the meadow. The proposal order barks out the aggressive and heart-wrenching phrase, “Drain and bed thereof trees shrubbery, thickets and land”. It will also “Drain and bed” the allotments and the pathway. It sounds like rape. It makes me want to cry.

Before I could express my sorrow the lone gentleman excused himself to go and use the meadow to use in his own unique way – to practice his bagpipes. Having come to terms with the sadness (and surreality), of the situation, I note that Port Meadow can still be rescued and would encourage you to help, by writing to the council.

Above my own passion for the place, and away from the tight grappling fury of the city, this space is a haven and a refuge for peace, love(making) and dubious mayday rituals. It is speckled with pleasant pubs – I especially recommend The Perch and The Trout, if you hadn’t yet sampled them – and It provides nourishment for ponies, poets and people in the form of grass, sublimity and vegetables. There is plenty of water (and beer) to drink and mud to roll around in, and the occasional haunting melodies of a bagpipe-practising gentleman to delight your ears.

As I stand taking in the spiritual sustenance of the open water and rough country wind, I am reminded of how, a millennium ago, some plucky Anglo-Saxons took arms against a sea of Danes. And entreat in a similar fashion, the students of Oxford to save us from the trains.

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