So farewell Abingdon, my home for the winter. With the arrival of spring I'm packing up my kit bag and hitting the road again. But I'll miss this town, where there's always someone feeding the ducks:
and the doors are amazing:
even if they must be kept shut:
There are ancient almshouses with equally ancient residents who have indulged in some extraordinarily morbid but beautiful grafitti:
I think most of the aged poor have disproved the author of Ecclesiastes:
Some of the almshouses are named in honour of their benefactors:
With names like this, it is no surprise to read (on Wikipedia) that one of Abingdon's more famous residents is Gerald Charles Dickens, the great-grandson of the novelist. Finally, here's more on the great Mr Twitty, in the fine stonecutting that he deserves:
Now I aspire to be one of Twitty's 'honeft and induftrious poor' in order that one day I may be maintained in 'Meate Drinke and Apparrel and all other Neceffaryes of Life' in Abingdon, with enough crumbs left over to feed the ducks.