Abingdon to Oxford: A Summer's Day Along the Thames

ABINGDON BRIDGE

Abingdon to Oxford: A Summer's Day Along the Thames

From "Pilgrimage: A husband, a wife and a dog journey to the source"

"The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God."

Anne Frank

Summer has finally arrived. The sky stretches above us in glorious, uninterrupted blue, the kind of perfect summer's day that makes you forget every grey, drizzly morning London has ever inflicted upon you. Pam adjusts her sun hat while Freya practically bounces with excitement as we set off from Abingdon Bridge, her tail wagging with the infectious enthusiasm that dogs possess for new adventures.

The ancient stone bridge beneath our feet has been connecting these riverbanks since the 15th century, though I suspect it's seen more peaceful crossings than ours - Freya has already decided she needs to investigate every single scent the Oxfordshire countryside has to offer. "Someone's excited," Pam laughs, as our canine explorer tugs us toward the water's edge, nose twitching with the promise of countryside mysteries.

The morning sun catches the Thames, transforming its surface into a mirror of liquid gold. After walking through London's concrete embrace, this stretch feels like a different world. Rather than connecting buildings the river flows with with unhurried grace between rolling meadows.

Our planned route hits its first snag when we discover the walkway across Abingdon weir is closed for maintenance. I’m tempted to curse but with the weather like perhaps detours themselves are gifts. So I resolve to be grateful for it. 

We cross to the other side, where there is no path at first and we get lost. My commitment to gratitude is challenged but at the same moment we spot ten ducklings.

‘Aww,’ says Pam. Freya barks… but not that seriously.

The detour leads us past the Abingdon Wildflower Maze, a riot of summer colour that makes Freya's nose go into overdrive. Poppies blaze scarlet against the blue sky, while cornflowers (I had to look that up) nod in the gentle breeze like nature's own applause.

"Look at that," Pam says, pointing toward St. Andrews Church rising above the meadows. The medieval spire reaches skyward with timeless grace, its ancient stones warmed to honey gold in the morning light. I find something profoundly moving about these old churches scattered along the Thames Path - like sentinels keeping watch over England's soul. Each one tells the story of communities that gathered here for centuries, their voices raised in hymns that once echoed across these same fields.

Even though I might be an atheist (I’m not sure, which probably means I’m not) I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness for our lost Christian heritage. These magnificent buildings, which once formed the beating heart of village life, now stand as monuments to a faith that slips further from our collective memory with each passing year. The bells that once called workers from the fields now ring mainly for tourists… and the occasional wedding.

"What are you thinking about?" Pam asks, noticing my contemplative mood.

"Just wondering what it would have been like when that church was the center of everything," I reply. "When Sunday morning meant the whole village walking this same path to hear the parson's sermon."

She nods.

SANDFORD LOCK

The path leads us on toward Sandford Lock, and here the Thames reveals one of its most enchanting faces. The lock itself is a masterpiece of Victorian engineering, its mechanisms still operating with the precision their designers intended over a century ago. As my dad used to say: ‘They don’t make #em like that anymore’.

The setting captivates - willows trailing their fingers in the water, swans gliding past with regal indifference, and the gentle sound of water flowing over the weir.

Freya discovers that swans are significantly larger than the ducks she's accustomed to in London's parks. She gives them a respectful berth, perhaps remembering her ill-fated encounter with some aggressive geese at Keston Lakes. "Good girl," Pam says.

The Kings Arms sits lockside like something from a watercolor painting, its terrace overlooking the Thames with views that would make a poet weep. We settle at a table in the shade. I order a pint of local ale, a southern comfort and lemonade for London’s new whiskey queen and a bowl of water for you-know-who.

It’s not just about walking all the time.

We continue our journey toward Oxford. The path here feels ancient, worn smooth by countless feet over the centuries. I imagine medieval pilgrims, Victorian ramblers, and wartime lovers all treading this same route, each carrying their own stories and dreams.

Iffley Lock appears ahead, another jewel in the Thames' crown. The Victorian lock cottage sits picture-perfect beside the water, roses climbing its walls in profusion. It's the kind of scene that makes you want to abandon modern life entirely and become a lock-keeper, spending your days watching boats pass and seasons change.

IFFLEY LOCK

"Could you live here?" Pam asks, echoing my thoughts.

I consider the romance of it - the peaceful rhythm of opening and closing the lock gates, the constant parade of boats and their occupants, the deep connection to the river's ancient rhythms.

I imagine myself as a Victorian lock master (if that’s what they’re called)

The first barge horn sounds before dawn, pulling me from sleep in the cottage beside the lock. I stumble to the window, still in my nightshirt, to see the Mary Catherine waiting in the grey half-light, her cargo of coal bound for Oxford. By the time I've pulled on my boots and coat, two more barges have joined the queue, their crews stamping feet against the morning chill and calling out good-natured complaints about my laziness. The lock gates creak open with familiar resistance, and I begin the day's rhythm - wind the paddles, let the water rush, guide the boats through, close the gates, and start again. Each boat brings news from upstream or down: grain prices in Abingdon, a new bridge being built at Wallingford, whose daughter has married whom. The lock is the village's beating heart, and I am its keeper.

Pam’s question seems enticing. But this isn’t the Victorian era, obviously.

So there’s the isolation, the lack of a pub within easy walking distance, and the fact that our daughters would probably never visit. And that I’m still a city boy at heart.

"Ask me again in winter," I reply.

As we round the final bend, Oxford's famous spires emerge in the distance like a mirage shimmering in the summer heat. The "dreaming spires" that Matthew Arnold wrote about rise from the landscape with timeless majest.

Even from miles away, you can sense the weight of centuries, as much accumulated knowledge and learning has flowed through this city as water has flowed along the Thames.

The approach to Oxford feels appropriately dramatic. As we cross the final bridge into the city, a magnificent heron stands motionless at the water's edge, as still as a stone sentinel. Or perhaps it's a crane - my ornithological knowledge has always been shaky. Regardless of its exact species, the bird remains utterly unmoved as a small crowd of admirers gathers to photograph it.

GUARDING THE ENTRANCE TO OXFORD

"Look at that," whispers a woman with an expensive camera, "it's like it's posing."

The bird, with the superior air of all wildlife that finds itself suddenly famous, maintains its dignified stance. Freya eyes it with interest but has learned enough about large birds to keep her distance. The heron (I'm going with heron) moves one of its feet, proving its not a statue, but otherwise remains steadfastly still.

Walking into Oxford proper feels like stepping through layers of history. The medieval streets, the birth of scientific revolutions, and the passage of some of the greatest minds in human history. Gargoyles leer down from Gothic towers, while students cycle past with the casual confidence of youth temporarily inhabiting this ancient seat of learning.

THE CITY OF DREAMING SPIRES

The contrast with our morning walk couldn't be more striking. From the peaceful meadows of rural Oxfordshire to the bustling intellectual energy of the university city - it's like watching England's entire story unfold in a single day's journey.

We find refuge in a small coffee shop tucked away from the tourist crowds.

"Well," says Pam, studying the map spread across our table, "we've made it to Oxford."

It feels like more than just reaching another waypoint on our Thames Path pilgrimage.

As we sit in the afternoon sunshine, watching the world go by through our coffee shop window, I again think that this is what our pilgrimage has always been about. Not just the physical challenge of walking 184 miles, but the chance to slow down, to notice, to connect with the landscape and history that shaped us all.

Freya's gentle snoring from beneath the table provides the perfect soundtrack to our contemplation. Next, we'll continue westward, following the Thames deeper into its Cotswold headwaters. But for now, we're content to rest in this ancient city, grateful for another perfect day on our liquid highway through English history.