The Bookshelf ~ May 2025

lectori salutem

DEAR READER,

Two years ago on May Morning I was in Oxford.

I had gone there to write. Nine days working on The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 7. Nine days seeing which characters would speak and when. Nine days of realizing that if one wants Hawkes to be present, one finds him there, in Oxford. Nine days of scenes from EML Vol. (undisclosed) appearing around every corner.

I have long known of May Morning in Oxford, as does anyone who grew up watching the film Shadowlands, but had planned my writing trip without realizing I would be in Oxford on the first of May. It was my lovely host who suggested I rise before dawn and walk the hedged country lane into the ‘city of dreaming spires’ to experience the wonder, the madness, the reverence, the revelry.

The students had been up all night. Many giddy and a fair bit drunk, a few had engaged in fisticuffs at some point, their faces bloodied. Most were dragging themselves about, the night of merrymaking giving way to what would come.

Then there were others of us—quiet, steady, alone or in small groups of two or three—making our way towards Magdalen Tower. From all directions, a wave of pilgrims among the students.

Dozens and then hundreds, until we were pressed together as thousands on High Street, prepared to hear the choir sing at daybreak. What a crowded spectacle! Shouts! Calls! The green man! Hats and ribbons and tired eyes. Tall spires reaching up towards the sky. The Christian and the pagan, the holy and the profane, those who had woken early, those who had run about Oxford the night through—all pressed together in wait. Anticipation grown wild. My heart was beating.

And then, daybreak.

The choir had begun to sing.

The magical and mischievous and marvelous untangled and braided again into upswing, upward lift, and reverence, all through the clarion prayer of young voices. Scripture was read. Hymns were sung. Prayers were offered.

And thousands of us stood in this fresh May and listened in silence.

I’m not certain how long it lasted, half an hour perhaps? And then the service was over. A shuffling began. Most of the crowd began following the slow, tired tide down High Street. I—at first chance—moved past the barriers and in a different direction, finding myself near the gates of Magdalen College.

They were open.

I walked in.

Now, as I learned later, there are to be no unofficial visitors. But in the clear watercolor wash of this May first, I was simply following beauty. I walked through the college and the gardens sprawling along the river behind. I marveled. I spread out every thought. A handful of Italian students snuck their way in over a closed bridge—it was impressive—and into the woodland where I was walking.

I slowed my step and gave them their space, taking mine.

And the bells. The bells from the tower rang out for I don’t know how long.

It turns out that when one returns to the gates of Magdalen College and they are locked and there are policemen standing outside, one has to think on their feet. (It was, looking back, a very Emma predicament.)

The gates were locked from inside as well as out. I tried nonchalantly to leave through the closed parking. No such luck. I cast about for any other options while trying to look like I belonged. There were none.

Finally I found a student—awake and alert and not crashed into a May Morning stupor—and explained I needed subtle rescue. Could she please use her pass to let me out of the gates? Yes, she was happy to do so.

And don’t you worry. I made certain the Italians got out as well.

May And The Poets

There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books:—
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.

- Leigh Hunt

AS OF THIS posting, Beth Brower Scribbles Away is No. 2 on the Substack fiction leaderboard. Thank you so much readers! This is due to your support. Kind of amazing.

KEEP A WEATHER EYE out for an extra email from Beth Brower Scribbles Away in the next week or so. Some exciting very exciting things to announce this May.

HOUSEKEEPING:

I receive a lot of enquiries about intellectual property and licensing associated with The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion and other books. I am in the process of looking at such things, but it takes time to set these sorts of legal ducks in a row. As soon as I have an answer regarding how I will handle licensing, etc, I will let you know.

Pool in the Woods by George Inness, 1892

THANKS AGAIN for all your tremendous support. If you would like to experience a May day in Oxford but can’t get on a plane right now, please enjoy the photographs below.

x Beth