Nestled on the banks of the River Thames, just a short jaunt south of Oxford, lies Abingdon-on-Thames—a town with history older than most countries, quirks that could fill a novel, and a sense of community stronger than a pub lock-in.
To outsiders, it’s just another picturesque market town with a fancy name. But to those who live here (and actually pronounce it properly), Abingdon is a living, breathing, slightly odd little kingdom of its own.
Here are four things only the people of Abingdon-on-Thames will truly understand—and if you know, you know.
1. The Bun Throwing Tradition: Yes, We Chuck Pastries Off a Roof
Try explaining this to someone not from Abingdon and watch their face twist with confusion and mild concern:
“Oh yeah, we throw currant buns off the roof of the county hall to celebrate royal events.”
You’re met with the inevitable:
“Wait—you throw baked goods… at people?”
Yes. Yes, we do.
The Bun Throwing is Abingdon’s most bafflingly brilliant tradition. Whenever there’s a royal wedding, jubilee, coronation, or any other excuse to wave a Union Jack, the good townsfolk gather in the market square as town councillors in full regalia lob thousands of buns from the County Hall Museum balcony. No one knows exactly why this started (something to do with Queen Victoria?), and no one really cares—it’s now sacred law.
Locals know that proper bun-catching requires technique:
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Elbows out.
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No mercy.
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Beware of flying elbows from competitive pensioners.
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Bring a plastic bag for collecting your loot.
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And for heaven’s sake, don’t eat the bun. You frame it, preferably next to the newspaper clipping.
2. The “Wait, Did You Say You’re From Oxford?” Dilemma
Telling someone you’re from Abingdon can often go one of two ways:
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Blank stare.
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“Oh! That’s near Oxford, right?”
Now, we get it. Oxford has the dreaming spires, the universities, the film crews pretending it’s Victorian London. But let’s get one thing straight:
We are NOT Oxford. We’re close, sure. But we’re a different beast altogether.
Abingdon has its own identity, and we’re protective of it. We’ve got history older than Oxford (yep, Abingdon Abbey was kicking about before Oxford Uni cracked its first textbook), and we’ve got the River Thames before it was cool. We even have our own traffic problems and Waitrose.
We also know the pain of waiting for the X3 bus that’s “due in 2 minutes” for 15 solid minutes, and then finally gives up entirely, replaced by a rogue double-decker that seems to appear out of a temporal rift in 2007.
Still, tell someone from out of town you’re from Abingdon and they’ll reply,
“Oh yeah, I think I drove through that once. There was a roundabout?”
Which brings us to…
3. The Roundabouts Are Our Personality Now
Other towns have landmarks. We have roundabouts.
The Marcham Interchange? An absolute menace. The Peachcroft roundabout? A lawless spaghetti bowl. The Tesco roundabout? The place where driving skill goes to die. The “double roundabout” near Waitrose? Sent straight from the underworld.
Locals can navigate them blindfolded in the pouring rain while holding a Greggs sausage roll in one hand and dodging cyclists with the other. Outsiders, on the other hand, freeze like startled deer, causing tailbacks longer than the line at the free summer music events in the Abbey Gardens.
For some reason, traffic planning in Abingdon is a niche art form. There are roads that technically exist, but Google Maps dares not speak their names. Trying to explain how to get from Drayton Road to the Fairacres retail park without invoking ancient cartography and vague gestures is a fool’s errand.
Yet somehow, we manage. We always do.
4. The River Is Beautiful—Until It’s in Your Living Room
There’s a moment every winter when it’s a bit too quiet. The sky’s gone grey. The ducks are looking shifty. The weather app starts making threats. That’s when every Abingdon local has the same thought:
“Oh no. Not again. Is the Thames about to burst its banks?”
Living near the river is magical. The walks are serene. The swans glide majestically like they own the place (which, let’s face it, they do). In the summer, the riverside is the place to picnic, paddleboard, or have existential chats over ice cream from Annie’s.
But when it rains? And then rains again? And then again?
Suddenly, we’re checking the Environment Agency website like it’s the football scores. The river starts creeping up, sneaking into gardens like a soggy ninja. Then the flood defences go up and local Facebook groups ignite into a frenzy of well-meaning chaos:
“Sandbags outside No. 17!”
“The allotments are underwater—again!”
“Does anyone know if the A415 is passable or do I need to row my child to school?”
Yet despite the seasonal river drama, we wouldn’t have it any other way. Because come spring, when the cherry blossoms appear near Albert Park and the boats return to the water, all is forgiven.