Mornings in Bodley, drowsing among the worn browns and tarnished gilding of Duke Humphrey, snuffing the faint, musty odor of slowly perishing leather...; long afternoons, taking an outrigger up the Cher, feeling the rough kiss of the sculls
on unaccustomed palms, listening to the rhythmical and
satisfying kerklunk of the rowlocks, watching the play of muscles
on the Bursar's sturdy shoulders at stroke, as the sharp
spring wind flattened the thin silk shirt against them; or, if the
day were
warmer, flicking swiftly in a canoe under Magdalen walls and so by the twisting race at King's Mill by Mesopotamia to Parson's Pleasure; then back, with mind relaxed and body stretched and vigorous, to make toast by the fire.