Oxford.

Debris of post-exam revelry litters streets of history as we swing through lanes between cold, stone buildings, warmed by bustling students in the midst of exams. Streamers and champagne bottles (empty, undoubtedly) draw eyes from century old structures to the realities of modern day students. 

The atmosphere is tangibly studious; 1 in 3 wear glasses and 1 in 2 parade sneakers with jeans, their passing sentences peppered with scholars, formulas and thoughts stemmed from IQ's 160+. 

The oldest university in the English speaking world is beautiful, and expensive. Entry is banned to all with less than 8 pounds in their pocket and Harry Potter's famed outdoor grounds stand as  unreachable as Hogwarts itself. 

High tea seems compulsory in a place dripping with English culture and our tea flows as freely as the conversation. The novel past of the small, busy (on this warm, sunny Saturday) town put an eloquent fire in my literary belly, the beauty of words spilling out from every inch of a town drenched in past famed writers. 

The authors, poets, scholars and philosophers live on in the town, rather than the people. The unshaven, pimpled, single current students with their giant satchels spilling with two tonne books perpetuate the lingering suspicions that the talent of Oxford's habitants has long since faded; but we can hope, I think, that talent may one day be measured by who can mismatch corduroy pants and a woollen vest with such apparent ease.