Or . . . perhaps I'd throw a saddle on old Paint. With saddlebags full of provisions and a blanket roll behind, I could set off for the far mountains, sleeping beneath the dazzling stars and waking to frost on my blanket.. . .
Or . . . one could motor in elegance, a liveried chauffer at the wheel, purring along the boulevards and waving languidly at pedestrian acquaintances . . .
Or . . . I'd opt for the camel, padding across the Outback. The train and its passengers whisk past us and behind its windows, someone heaves a heartfelt sigh of envy.
Or . . . seeking the exhilaration of speed, I'd don helmet and goggles, lean into the curves, and ride the wind.
But perhaps a punt would be pleasant. White flannels, quiet water, and a picnic basket. And though it's Cambridge, not Oxford, I'll lie back, enjoy the view, and pretend I'm Harriet Vane, on the river with Lord Peter.