7th - 10th September - Newport

Newport is a golden place, made of sunshine and dreams. It has two pros, both named Rich P. Smith. It followed that we would later dine with two men named Alex and two men named Chris. Our Rich P. Smith greeted us with a warm kiss and a stubbly smile. All four of us (minus Ice Queen Audrey) instantly fell in love, particularly once he confirmed that we could play lawn tennis on Newport’s historic grass courts, once home to the US Open. Rich P.ickings here, we thought!

Jonny’s blissful summer apprenticeship spent at Newport proved an invaluable asset for us newcomers, as did his near-constant supply of Hallowe’en-themed Lindt truffles (once intended for Mrs Whitaker and then lovingly repurposed). Jonny guided us capably to our new home with Mary and Bill, where in traditional style we would go on to outstay our welcome. We were entranced by their Labrador Bonnie and their equally adorable outsize Mini Cooper. Bill and Mary were okay too.

Match day dawned bright and fair. What could be a more fitting backdrop to our titanic clash with Newport than the Men’s US Open Final, we asked ourselves? Unfortunately for Flushing Meadows, the historic Cilic-Nishikori tussle was entirely overshadowed by some of the most gripping court tennis club level has ever seen. Sophie had a sweaty battle with Club President and King of Jamestown Steve Devoe, while Clare traded devastating forehands and nutritional tips with dietician Beth. Special mention in the doubles has to go to Kip “You Baby” Curran and his tiny blonde counterpart, who used all the strength in his 13-year-old body to crush us mercilessly. Clare was forced to resort to lobbing him shamelessly, even on the serve, bouncing giraffes over his hapless silken head.

Oxford 6 – 3 Newport

Sophie Dannreuther vs Steve Devoe: 7-9

Audrey Davies vs Alex Forbes: 8-7

Izzy Hunt vs Andy: 10-7

Sophie & Audrey vs Alex Forbes & Alex White: 6-8

Clare Bucknell vs Beth Winthrop: 10-5

Audrey & Izzy vs Beth & Alex White: 8-6

Clare & Sophie vs Peter & Kip Curran: 2-10

Sophie & Izzy vs Kip & Keith: 9-8

Audrey & Clare vs Fred & Keith: 10-2

After four matches each, we donned our filthy lawn tennis shoes and headed over to the grass. On the hallowed turf, Sophie tried out the game of lawn tennis for the first time under Clare’s capable tutelage. Having prematurely celebrated a 6-5 win, she was witheringly informed of the rules by a grudgingly impressed Izzy. Wilting in the heat, we took advantage of the National Tennis Club’s premium shampoo, all the while harbouring anxieties about having to return to second-rate haircare products upon return to the UK. We headed out for dinner but found that we had spent so long drinking in the club’s prestige that we were locked in. Refusing to accept the arbitrary closing times of petty bureaucrats (…Andrew?!), the scholar-athletes wormed their way through a four-inch gap underneath the gate, all the while scrutinised by the glaring eye of Newport Private Security. Brains and brawn! This event will be referred to in the history books as Gategate. 

Club President and King of Jamestown Steve Devoe generously took us all out to Lobster Shack for a delicious seafood supper. We enjoyed the company of a wealth of Riches [and Chrises and Alexes], and bibbed ourselves up for a wild lobster ride. At a downtown oyster bar called the Midtown Oyster Bar, Izzy singlehandedly dealt with renowned doubles partnership Sailor Alex and Moustache Alex, while Audrey swatted away underwhelming bobble serve after underwhelming bobble serve. Needless to say, Izzy’s underarm twist will be remembered in Newport for generations. Clare’s lobster made a late break for it, surging to eventual victory in a desperate bid for freedom.

For a small (lobster-free) flavour of the evening, we will soon be uploading a link to show our commitment to homegrown court tennis talent.

Sophie’s tactical loss to CP&KoJ Steve Devoe, coupled with the charms of Izzy’s face, led to the unexpected offer of a tour of Newport Harbour by speedboat.  If we had been nauseous before, we certainly were now (though we clawed back some comfort from being affectionately trampled on by the sharp talons of Steve’s spaniel, Spikey Mikey).  Once out of Newport bay, Clare found her raison d’être in being dragged in a tiny plastic dinghy behind a rapidly moving vessel captained by Poseidon’s representative on earth, whilst Sophie, Izzy and Audrey waterskied effortlessly first time round (technically, Izzy periodically emerged into a nervous crouch above the surf).  Already crowned King of Jamestown, Steve was subsequently appointed Official Waterskiing and Related Sports Instructor to the Oxford University Ladies Real Tennis team.  Hopelessly Devoe-ted to OU, that’s Steve!  

We had hoped to luncheon in the hallowed surroundings of the Newport Yacht Club, but Izzy’s waterskiing took so long that it was already closed by the time we arrived.  Starved and frustrated, we wound up at a downtown pizza parlour, where we destroyed 2500 calories each in three minute’s flat.  Imagine our consternation when we were informed by our hosts that they would like to dine out especially early that evening (6.30pm latest), and recommended in particular that we try the veal gorgonzola!  Audrey gamely chowed down on a solitary stalk of asparagus (which, incidentally, nearly escaped lobster-style), whilst Sophie and Clare mutely nibbled on garden salads.  It’s a sad day when a single bottle of Sauvignon Blanc defeats a party of six.  

A delicious New England breakfast of muffins and assorted jams (Sophie demanded quince jelly and a whole quince) gave us the chance to redeem ourselves in the food stakes, and having eaten our hosts out of their larders, we forced them to partake in an unexpectedly successful six-way selfie.  Despite Audrey’s passive-aggressive watch-checking and grim determination to be on the road, we insisted that no visit to Newport would be complete without a VIP tour of the International Tennis Hall of Fame, which in our case was conducted by a man who was unimpressed by our cheery English platitudes.  ‘Yes, I can see you look happy’, he said suspiciously.  ‘It’s very suspicious’.  Sophie stared hungrily at Roger Federer’s used T-shirt, whilst Clare gasped greedily at the sheer size of Andy Murray’s Adidas footwear.  Secreting neon yellow souvenir tennis stickers about our persons, we crept out of the Hall of Fame in semi-disgrace and waved the fondest of farewells to a town we could never show our faces in again.

Clare, Izzy, Sophie and Audrey