As I am wont to do, I passed the final night of my first year at Oxford in something of a Champagne stupor. Having finished my exams in the afternoon I spent the remaining time until the dawn broke standing in a dinner jacket in the gardens at Trinity College watching my gait become steadily less reliable. The Trinity Ball was, by all accounts, the One To Be At in that summer term, but I might have forfeited the pleasure had I known that just metres away Wadham College was hosting a more modest party which featured a variety of fairground attractions. Watching twirling Ferris Wheels and a variety of Huss spinning rides jut invitingly above the ancient walls, I found myself drawn into a familiar conflict between the aesthetic and the carnal, and concluded that I had probably made the wrong decision. Oh well, you can’t always get what you want.<\/p>\n

The following morning, after a failed attempt at sleep, I did what any self-respecting Oxford undergraduate would have done once freed from the clutches of academia: I got on the first plane out of England. I had always wanted to see the battlefields of the American Civil War (and the South more generally), and a class on the subject with a flamboyant friend who shared my love for Gone With The Wind had whetted my appetite for venturing below the Mason-Dixon line. Moreover, as with any road trip through America’s population centers, the potential for stop-offs at a host of coveted amusement parks were rife. With the untouchable lights of the carnival still dancing in my mind, I quickly packed a bag, took a train to the airport and, stumbling into a window seat and failing spectacularly to refuse the complimentary champagne, headed west.<\/p>\n

Battlefields are strange places, especially when they are lovingly archived and preserved, and against their quiet solemnity it can be difficult to imagine what had once occurred; the maniacal activity, the adrenalin, the fear, the sheer and hellish chaos of war, these all feel a million miles away when filtered and curated. Subjugated now by tram routes, white fences and bronze plaques, our theatres of war can appear a touch pristine; if not quite whitewashed then certainly polished and refined. They are less preserved in aspic then ring-fenced and landscaped. The land is there, but in many cases the sense of place has vanished.<\/p>\n

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