and became the crew our coach was doggedly determined we should be, it was sheer joy to be out on a crisp fall day with a crew on the river. You never forget the crack of eight long oars simultaneously biting into the water as the racing shell beneath you leaps suddenly forward. As you drive your legs, back and arms into the full stroke and then slide ahead, coiling to release the next, the boat becomes a living thing, gliding with barely a susurrating curl of wave at the bow. Eight muscled bodies move as one. Everything melts into a rhythmic single-mindedness. If you close your eyes, as we sometimes were told to do in practice drill, it feels as though you are flying. The wind is on your face and the rest of the world is forgotten. It’s a glorious feeling.
In the distance, the towers and Gothic pinnacles of the colleges kept silent watch; in nearby meadows, geese and cattle grazed; close by, the majestic swans sailed on in sublime indifference. It was an almost mystical experience—until a passing barge would occasionally send a swell that would slap over the side of the shell and douse your sweaty back with cold spray. However, after a warm shower later and sitting down to tea in your study—toast and honey or a bit of cheese—before hitting the books, you felt truly alive, glowing and at peace. Our crew managed to win our oars twice and went on to wear with pride the distinctive tortoise ties—a dark blue tie with a white tortoise image sewn into it just below the knot—that marked our membership in the Tortoise Club. It is composed of those who manage to row in the long-distance races held annually on the River Thames at Reading. The college mascot was a big tortoise that could sometimes be seen sunning itself in a corner of one of the college’s three quads.
One of our crew members, Ronald Watts, the son of a Canadian Anglican bishop, later went on to become provost of Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario. Ron and I went to the coronation of Elizabeth II in June 1953 by paddling down the Thames from Oxford to London. At night we slept under the canoe, which I had had my father ship over to me during my first term, and we dined off a very large Dutch cheese and a couple of loaves of bread. We spent two full days on the trip, paddling past Eton College, Windsor Castle and Runnymede Island, where Magna Carta was signed, and later brought the craft back to Oxford on the train.
Many years later, in 1983, at the Oxford eightieth reunion of Rhodes Scholars, which we were both attending with our wives, the Queen spoke to us and I was able to tell her of our perhaps eccentric mode of getting to her ceremony all those years ago. Her eyes twinkled as she laughed and said: “How clever of you to have paddled downstream!” A Reuters cameraman caught the happy exchange and it was featured not just in the Toronto Star but also in the New York Times and several other international newspapers the next day.
This photo op didn’t just happen by chance, although luck lent a hand. The Toronto Star foreign editor had asked me to cover the reunion since I was planning on being there in any case. So I had arranged for a freelance photographer from Reuters in London to be in the gardens at Rhodes House for the Queen’s visit. The former Governor General of Canada, Roland Michener, the oldest Rhodes Scholar on the list of those attending, was supposed to be there to greet Her Majesty. My instructions to the photographer were to capture a shot of the two of them meeting to accompany my story, to be filed later that night by phone to Toronto. Just as the rope line had been set up in the gardens and the crowd of scholars and their partners was buzzing in anticipation, the Australian freelancer whom Reuters had sent came up to me to say that Michener had reportedly been taken ill and would not be available for a picture. I told him: “Do you see that attractive lady with the coral dress and white hat?” I pointed to Susan, who was standing nearby talking to the Wattses. “If you see the Queen come anywhere close to her, get that shot if you possibly can.” I went back over to stand with Susan.
Just as the Queen, by a remarkable synchronicity, crossed to where we, together with Ron and Donna Watts, were grouped, I saw the photographer emerge above the heads of the people on the other side of the huge crowd and begin to shoot some film. He was obviously standing on a chair or box of some sort. As the Queen ended her brief stop and chat with us, I looked across at him and saw the palace police pulling him down, but not before he gave me a thumbs-up signal and a huge grin. He had got the shot, and it made the subsequent feature glow.
The following evening there was a special dinner in the gardens of the main quadrangle of Balliol College. It was a formal occasion and large tents had been set up to cover the affair in case of rain. The guest of honour and speaker for the event was the aging but vigorous former prime minister Sir Harold Macmillan. Everyone was given a glass of champagne at the entrance to the quad and with the former scholars and their partners all in tuxedos and black tie or lovely gowns, it was a highly colourful scene. Macmillan was at the top of his form—witty, provocative and wise. The wines were excellent and the fellowship over and after dinner were not soon to be forgotten.
When we finally arrived back at Oriel, where we were staying for three or four days until the reunion program ended, it was about ten-thirty, but we were still too “up” from the evening’s events to think of going to bed. Susan said she would love a cup of tea, so I changed into jeans and a sweater and took off up Oriel Lane and the High past historic St. Mary’s Church in search of a tea wagon.
The curving chief thoroughfare, graced on each side by some of the loveliest spires and towers of any avenue in the world, with its ancient colleges and famous churches, was strangely devoid of traffic. But in the distance, beyond All Souls, there sat a lone tea van. A couple of customers huddled under the lamplight. As I came up to them, it was clear that they too had been at the Balliol banquet— they were still in formal evening dress—and also that the man had lost something, because he was patting himself down like a pipe smoker in a frantic search for his matches. He and his wife appeared to be in their late thirties. He said to me, “I believe I saw you at the dinner tonight. This is a bit embarrassing, but I forgot to bring my wallet when we came out and we were hoping to get something to drink here.” I hastened to pay the small amount involved, and as I did so he said: “By the way, my name is Bill Clinton. I’m the governor of Arkansas, and this is my wife, Hillary.” I introduced myself and we had a friendly conversation for a few minutes before parting to our respective colleges.
As in the incident with the Queen, there was a postscript. A few years later, shortly after Clinton became president of the United States, I wrote to him at the White House as religion editor of the Toronto Star to register my protest at his firing of twenty-three Tomahawk missiles at intelligence facilities in Baghdad on June 26, 1993. The missiles, fired from American warships in the Red Sea, were a reprisal and “wake-up call” to Saddam Hussein for a thwarted plot to assassinate President George Bush Sr. during his “victory visit” to Kuwait in April of that year. Clinton had called the alleged plot “a particularly loathsome and cowardly” attempt. I began the brief missive on a friendly note, recalling the occasion, which I admitted he had probably long forgotten, when our paths had crossed in the High Street in Oxford in 1983. Then I put the letter totally out of my mind.
One day about four weeks later, a very official-looking parcel came by special delivery to my home. It bore the seal of the White House on the envelope and contained a personal letter, which addressed my comments. While I continued to disagree with his actions at that time, I respected his intentions and courtesy in replying to a critical response from somebody he didn’t really know and had met so briefly.
5
THE CURE
OF SOULS
AFTER the three intensive years at Oxford from 1951 to 1954, my parents and younger sister attended my graduation ceremony. In London afterwards, my father and I got into a bitter argument. He had decided that it was time for me to undertake two years at Wycliffe College, the University of Toronto’s evangelical seminary, to prepare for the Anglican priesthood through theological studies and practical training. I had wanted to take a couple of years off to go to Greenland and work on a fishing boat while exploring how the Danes had treated their Native peoples. All the reports I had ever read had shown that
