Past the boathouses we go, heading up the Thames. College crests and nipping winds remind us we are not in Venice, (although you strike a handsome figure my gondolier). Down the river you steer us in the company of ducks, a floating picnic party. We glide under branches burdened with the season. Natures own Rialto bridge. Soon the punt will sleep in Magdalens’ shadows, until the sun breaks through the clouds in spring, and we take to the river again.
By ThePoshGurl (HRHardy)