Five miles from the center of Oxford and north of the River Thames, at some distance from the famous colleges of Jordan, Gabriel, Baliol, and twenty-four others, all competing for victory in rowing races, where the city was formed only by towers and buildings with conical roofs rising above the gloomy horizons of Port Meadow, there stood the Godstow Monastery, with its kind-hearted nuns engaged in their sacred activities; and directly opposite this monastery, on the other bank of the river, there was an inn called The Perch. This particular inn was an old, stone, labyrinthine yet comfortable place. It had a veranda over the river, where peacocks – Norman one and the other Barry – lurked among the drunken patrons, snatching bites from their plates without the slightest hesitation, and from time to time raising their heads to let out wild, unarticulate cries.

It featured a cozy bar where the good people—if the academic staff of the colleges can be considered good people—drank their beer and smoked their pipes; and a popular bar where boatmen and field workers sat by the fire, played darts, or stood at the bar gossiping, arguing, or simply quietly getting drunk; in the inn’s kitchen, the owner’s wife cooked large quantities of meat every day in a complex manner, with wheels and chains turning a spit over a fire in the fireplace; and there was also a boy who helped serve, named Malcolm Polstead.