Dispatch from Oxford and Bicester Village

When I was eight, my best friend was called Eva. Her parents had a beautiful house in the village of Great Milton in Oxfordshire and most Friday evenings after school, we’d squeeze into the passenger seat (I know) of her nanny Sassie’s MG midget and roar up the M40 motorway, past the Hoover Factory and windmill from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang just in time for spaghetti bolognese round the kitchen table. Eva’s Dad wrote pretty decent musicals, and you’d often find yourself sitting next to songwriting royalty like Benny and Bjorn from Abba (even though Eva and I were far more interested in her guinea pigs than two hirsute Swedes).

On Saturday mornings, Eva and I would ride our two fat grey ponies bareback through the village, past “Ray White’s,” as Raymond Blanc’s legendary Manoir Au Quat’Saisons was known locally (currently under restoration and reopening late summer 2027), and trot to the local post office to buy half-penny sweets from a tray kept under the counter. As a result of this bucolic moment in my childhood, I have a huge love for this little pocket of England.

My last visit to Bicester Village was over twenty years ago, so I was looking forward to returning as I set off in my car from London earlier this week. I must admit it was also with a hint of trepidation, having recently been at the receiving end of exceptionally grumpy shop assistants at the outlet of a very famous shoemaker in Le Marche who positively shooed me out the door and back into the thunderstorm that had forced me to take refuge there in the first place.

The “Bicester Village Welcome,” as I like to call it, is the opposite and immediately apparent, as I wound my window down and asked for directions to the reserved parking bay from a smiling security guard on arrival. It was the same with the two ladies who shifted bollards and showed me where to park my car before making my way to The Apartment. This is the equivalent of the Concorde Lounge for serious shoppers, and by invitation only.

The Village itself is extremely easy to navigate and, like Naples and New York, is based on an Ancient Roman grid system, so I immediately felt at home. This time I was on a specific mission: having hit the final furlong of a 15-year restoration of a 13th-century farm in Devon, it was finally time to start filling it. I made an immediate beeline for The White Company to buy a brace of their extra-large bath mats, along with an obscene quantity of their iconic Pyrenean goose down pillows, which were reduced from £150 to £100. There were further discounts of up to 50% on almost everything, bar curiously their cashmere bed socks, which make such great gifts. After such a successful start, I skipped out of the store, having left all my goods to be delivered back to The Apartment which, in doing so, gives you the impression you haven’t spent anything at all.

Heading farther down the main drag, it was a quick pit stop at Fortnum & Mason to stock up on boxes of Violet Creams for my Italian friends, before unexpectedly buying an identical Barbour to an ancient one I’ve had for decades and haven’t been able to find since in any of their London stores. This was not part of my plan, likewise the Vivienne Westwood store across the street, where I picked up a few rude necklace charms for some girlfriends’ upcoming 50^th birthdays.

I pressed on, sweeping past all my favourite Italian designers such as Missoni and Loro Piana, before being seduced into Versace by more smiling salesfolk. I was clearly now on a shopping high and very nearly bought a canary-yellow overcoat—despite its very generous discount of over a thousand pounds, it was still the equivalent of a large fridge freezer, which alas took priority. Refocusing on homeware, I made my way to Le Creuset to admire their new range and kicked myself for having arrived the day after their most recent sale had finished, despite everything still being over 30% off. Normally shopping at Le Creuset means an exhausting journey home lugging ten tons of cast iron half way across London, but not at Bicester Village—within minutes, the extremely helpful Clare had whisked away my new volcanic orange casserole, soup pot and matching dog bowl (obviously), and I was off again.

This time to Zwilling, who are the oldest manufacturers of knives, and to chat to giggly Sue who went out of her way to explain how they are forged and why I’d be mad not to buy at least four sets for my new home. Which I promptly did, along with a set of award-winning nail clippers for the husband, which came in a green vegan case made out of apple peel, and a pair of industrial kitchen scissors that doubled as a bottle opener (needs must).

I could easily have spent an entire day at Bicester Village, possibly even more if my two teenage daughters had come along, but it was time to leave in order to reach Oxford for a late lunch. I bade a fond farewell to Annie in The Apartment, thanked the kind folk who had carried my shopping and made my way back to the car. It was helpful to note that despite arriving as the gates opened on a Monday morning, by the time I left, the car parks were packed and the streets of Bicester Village were getting very busy, with queues (albeit fast moving) forming outside some of the bigger brand names. My timing could not have been more perfect.

Within 15 minutes of leaving busy Bicester Village, I was winding my way down small country lanes, making way for tractors and busy combine harvesters before swinging through the gates of Rousham to stop and admire a fine herd of Longhorn cattle snoozing in the shadow of an ancient oak tree. As if by magic my phone stopped working, and I was greeted by a sign that said “No Children under 15, No Dogs, No Pushchairs!” The place was deserted, bar a flock of the outrageously named “Mille Fleur Barbu Duccles” bantams that we were instructed to “drive dead slowly” so as not to cause alarm.

Rousham has to be one of the best-kept secrets in Oxfordshire—an oasis of peace that came to fruition under the watchful eye of landscape designer William Kent during the 18^th century. The family who built the house still live here today, and it is their bantams that I wasn’t to bother as I made my way around the glorious grounds. Kent was famous for integrating the countryside with the more formal garden, so much so that he invented the “ha ha,” a sunken wall that removed the need for fencing and as a result gave us some of the most beautiful views in the English countryside.

For future visits, my advice would be to bring a rug and make your way down through the woods that lead past stone temples and follies to the banks of the River Cherwell for a picnic and a snooze. As you wind your way back towards the house, you should find time to squeeze yourself through the narrow gap in the yew hedge, at which point you will find yourself in a walled garden full of fruit trees, ancient roses, and crops of vegetables including marrows that could only win a red rosette at the local village fete.

Inspired by the kitchen garden of Rousham, just a few minutes away is the Rosara Garden Centre, where you can stock up on vast terracotta pots of sweet peas, and another English favourite, the dahlia, which comes in a myriad of shocking psychedelic colours at this time of year. Not to mention the superb gift shop, which meant more shopping (by now I was on a roll), this time for “garden snips” from Japanese brand Niwaki, bottles of divine geranium-scented bath oil by C.Atherly (formerly Cath Kidston), and beautiful packets of seeds from the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. It was a Monday and their restaurant The Yurt, which had come highly recommended, was closed, so yet another good reason to come back.

Ignoring the signs to Soho Farmhouse, which were disconcertingly as big as the signs to London, I set off for Oxford, which, like everything in these parts, was just a short, easy drive away. On the way, I called two of my greediest friends who are connected to the city to find out where best to lunch. I’d heard the food scene in Oxford isn’t something to shout about, and if anyone could help, it was them. Jordan Frieda, who founded the much-loved Trullo and Padella restaurants in London, roared down the phone that this was simply not true, and as luck would have it, I was only minutes away from one of his favourite restaurants, The Cherwell Boathouse. “Emily, the wine list is epic, even the house wine is insane, and it’s all very 1980s in a good way!” Minutes later, I found myself sitting on the banks of the river, a glass of Pimm’s in hand with owner Arthur, watching folk gently pass by on punts that his family have been making and hiring out since the mid 60s. Arthur spent years running a wine shop in London, which may be why the wine list is one of the most respected in the country and has been known to reduce grown men to tears. Not only will you find extremely rare vintages from the likes of Domaine Des Comtes Lafon, but at such decent prices that by the time I departed, I’d already booked in a late summer’s lunch with Jordan.

The Boathouse is in the quiet leafy neighbourhood of Summertown, which happens to be where my other greedy friend Tom, a food writer and restaurant critic, told me to seek out Pompette. A classic old-school French bistrot (pompette is French for tipsy) serving steak frites just as you want them. Run by husband and wife Pascal and Laura, they support local producers including Paddock Farm, who supply the pork behind their legendary jambon beurre baguette that attracts students from across the city at lunchtime.

If, like me, you suffer from honey stone fatigue, you’ll be delighted to hear that Oxford is also home to some remarkably good Brutalist architecture. Having spent my university years in a Brutalist university in the East of England, I am very fond of these concrete beasts that you rarely see on postcards of the City of Dreaming Spires.

St Antony’s College is home to the Hilda Besse Building, a distinguished example of Postwar Modernism built in the 1970s. Like most Oxford Colleges, you will still find the centuries-old tradition of dining halls and long common rooms designed for students to socialise, eat and study, but here they’ve been interpreted into light-filled modern spaces. Back outside, I was also blown away by the futuristic stainless steel “bridge” Zaha Hadid created for St Antony’s in the early 1980s.

Down the road is the equally impressive St. Catherine’s College, known affectionately as Catz. Currently undergoing building works, I arrived as the porter was locking up for the summer recess. He kindly grabbed a key and led me to the dining room, which I’d heard so much about. It was here at Catz that Arne Jacobsen designed not only the buildings and garden (much like William Kent had done at Rousham), but went so far as to design custom-made high-backed dining chairs, cutlery and table lamps. It was as if Hogwarts had been set in the 1970s. Having thanked Wasif, we returned to the reception where he sat me down in an original Arne Jacobsen Swan chair and explained that St Catz was one of the very first colleges to accept women in the early 1970’s and is still considered one of the most forward thinking. The added joy of both Catz and St Antony’s is that they are open campus, which means you can pretty much wander in at any time.

Heading farther into Oxford, it was time to explore two shops which Tom had told me I’d be a fool to miss. Blackwells Book Shop on Broad street has an unassuming Victorian shop front that happens to be home to the Norrington Room, containing no less than three miles of shelving tunnelled beneath Trinity College. Leaving the Norrington Rooms cathedral-like atmosphere, where visitors and students alike sat ensconced on battered leather armchairs, quietly absorbed in their books, I made my way up to the second floor to the Rare Books department. Sian, the manager, was more than happy to unlock bookcase after bookcase and show me everything, from an early edition of Animal Farm in Ukrainian to the first Puffin edition of The Hobbit (lest we forget Tolkien lived and wrote his masterpieces in North Oxford), and finally to a first edition of Gattopardo’s The Leopard, which I promptly bought.

Another unmissable Oxford stalwart is Ede & Ravenscroft on the High Street, which has been tailoring gowns and wigs since the 17^th century. One of the oldest tailors in the world, the shop is steeped in history, but also worth visiting for a “Suits you, Sir!” moment, and to pick up a pair of baby pink Welsh socks, or in my case, some cashmere-lined Evangeline gloves.

It was almost time to head back to London, but not before collecting a painting I’d bought recently at Mallams Auctioneers. They hold sales throughout the year (their library sales being the most popular), and it’s worth nipping in on a preview day even just to browse. My visit timed beautifully with the‘jewellery, silver and accessories sale, which had everything from vintage Yves St Laurent blazers and Hermès scarves to a particularly fine 19^th-century pocket watch.

As I made my way back to the car, I stopped to refuel with an espresso at Modern Art Oxford, which is housed in an old Victorian Brewery and has championed everyone from Marina Abramoviċ to Yoko Ono. And then, at long last, I set off for London with a car positively weighed down with treasures (not to mention Le Creuset). However, before reaching my old friend the M40, I could not resist taking a final detour to the suburb of Headington to gaze at its most famous resident, The Headington Shark—which, during the night of 9^th August 1986, crashed through the roof of an otherwise unassuming terraced house. Not only a great piece of protest art but a triumph of British eccentricity.

The drive home gave me time to think out a clear plan of attack for my next trip to these parts. It will be at some stage later this autumn, and I’ll make sure I leave Oxford in time for supper by the fire at the Wild Rabbit in Kingham. As both Bicester Village and Oxford are less than an hour away, I can always come back to both the following day. I may even finally grow up and do my Christmas shopping in good time for once. Friends have raved about the game that the Wild Rabbit serves at this time of year, and I’m already dreaming of their rabbit ravioli. I’m also looking forward to staying in one of the cosy cottages in the village that are now under the Daylesford umbrella and just a few minutes’ walk from the pub. If anywhere is going to rid me of my honey stone fatigue, then this is the place.