Gormley’s acrobatic statue was a reliable geographical marker, its perpendicular appendage was a bit disorienting, given the usual effects of gravity. Moreover, Oxford hospitality itself can pose a problem. Invited to dine at various of the colleges, we found that every gathering began with drinks, featured drinks throughout a sumptuous meal, followed that with a ‘second dessert’ accompanied by more drinks, and closed with more drinks at a session euphemistically known as ‘coffee’. At some point the light bulb went off: this may be what they mean by ‘high’ table. At Mansfield, we got more of the same treatment, with some especially memorable menus. I returned to the States in need of a drying out and a larger belt, though resolving not to blame Maria, Peter and Ben for catering to our every appetite. The defining characteristic of dinners (and other assemblies), however, was not the wine or claret or Madeira, or even the snuff (snuff??), but the conversation. Serious, but never snarky; comfortable, but not complacent; quick-witted but not competitive (though maybe a pair of American journalists just didn’t arouse anyone’s competitive instincts). Dinner partners were flatteringly attentive and utterly intriguing. I suppose practice makes perfect: there seems to have been a tradition of serious conversation at Oxford since Emo arrived from Friesland while Isolde was falling for Tristan. But Mansfield itself was, by comparison, born yesterday. And considering the nonconformity it began with and continues to cultivate, tradition isn’t the likeliest explanation for the conversational embrace of the College’s dons and donnas. At lunch it might have been Lucinda Rumsey or Chris Salamone, chatting about English authors as old as the University itself; or Pavlos Eleftheriadis, talking about modern law and, exasperatedly, contemporary Greek politics; or Marina Galano, excitedly explaining the wonders of aluminium and the exigencies of research – all at a high table in which the discourse was elevated, if not the table itself. At guest dinners it was the likes of sparkling newcomer Bonnie Greer or distinguished old-
timers Michael and Irene Freeden. In the SCR, it might have been Stephen Blundell on muons or Peggy Morgan on Eastern religions. Or Paul Lodge on pretty much anything, from Wagner to Dylan, St Paul to Buber to the Dalai Lama. And in the quad, ‘human geographers’ like Luke Dickens or Derek McCormack would talk about… well, I’m still not quite sure. I only know it wasn’t the world’s largest lakes or the capital of Bolivia. There were also Joel Rasmussen, Ros Ballaster, David Leopold, Paul Flather – the roster seemed endless. And back at her lodgings, the Principal, Labour stalwart Helena Kennedy, aka ‘the Red Baroness’, talking animatedly about the law, politics, Graham Norton, Julian Assange, John Waters, and god knows who and what else, with that forever twinkle in her eye. The point is: everyone enthusiastically shared thought in a spirit of egalitarian community, daily making flesh of the words carved into the SCR fireplace and invoked by the Principal at every dinner: ‘nullius boni possessio est iucunda sine socio’. Certainly no shortage of socio at Mansfield. Gab, gab and gab: never condescending; always engaging and warm (but never heated). And not just gab but cheery camaraderie – from the dining hall staff, the porters, our scout, from Tony Berezny and Matt Brock to Helen Jones and Jane Buswell. Where, Jan and I wondered, was the emotional reserve for which your country is so notorious back here in the States? Now, perhaps the peculiar hospitality of Mansfield is a function of the College’s intimate scale. Maybe it’s the levelling atmosphere: the staff, so central to the community; the students from state schools, so assiduously wooed. (In my broadcast stories on Brexit for US public television, set in Mansfield, the student interviewees were particularly forthcoming and unassuming.) Maybe it’s the physical layout itself: the cappuccino/etc machine and the bottomless biscuit bin, for example, so strategically placed that the route to and fro makes it impossible to avoid the likes of Paul Lodge, which is how you learn that you’d never want to. Maybe it’s the sheer comfort of rooms like the SCR with its come-hither chairs under a vaulted ceiling. Or maybe it’s Baroness Kennedy of the Shaws herself (you can’t overstate how we Americans love British titles) with her Friday soirées, which bring the campus together; her Saturday student brunches; her whirlwind geniality in general. But in the end, who really cares why Mansfield is as it is? I can only say that I would recommend a Visiting Fellowship to anyone I know, were it not for the fact that I’d much rather reserve the spot for myself – in perpetuity.
Mansfield 2015/16
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