In my first year at university, I came across a hermit who lived deep in the forests of Oxford. Coincidentally, he was also a member of my creative writing class. Having never met a real-life hermit before, my first impression was that he was rather odd looking. He donned an overgrown brown beard with broken twigs and leaves scattered across the knotted mess. His eyes were black like beetles, intense and quietly assessing. His skin was of a dirty brown colour from a lack of showering – he later confessed that the River Thames failed to flow through his forest. Yet one day I detected the distinct scent of lemon and strawberries wafting through the air from his direction, thus prompting me to raise an eyebrow in mild curiosity. He admitted that the girls in the nearby halls of residence had been very generous in supplying him with shampoo. On the same occasion, after some subtle staring on my part, I saw that his fingernails were immaculately clean. They even had a slight glittery shine to them. After he caught me admiring them, he simply shrugged as if he too were clueless as to how they came to be that way.

The hermit was very small, surely no taller than 5ft. To the first lecture, he was adorned in a large brown blanket which he more tied around him like a toga. The folds were intricately arranged and pinned in place with wooden clothes pegs. Despite the great effort that he appeared to have made while dressing for class that day, I felt he was in dire need of some new threads. The toga undoubtedly suited his elegant frame, but there were several noticeable holes in it. His feet were bare and upon closer inspection, appeared to have a leathery texture to them.

The hermit seemed to have greatly compromised his solitary lifestyle in order to attend our class. However, he refused to enter the building as he claimed that would be in violation of the ‘Hermit Code of Conduct’ which he had drawn up as a teenager. Instead, he would sit outside the classroom on a velvety throne of leaves. Our lecturer was more than willing to accommodate his needs and suggested that they open the back doors so that the hermit could hear him properly. The black beetle eyes immediately lit up, and he thanked the lecturer most graciously before promptly beginning his search for the comfiest of leaves.

A couple of minutes later with the hermit now seated, our lecturer asked the class to introduce themselves. As you can imagine, I was rather anxious to hear from the hermit. After an excruciatingly long wait through various monotonous greetings by my fellow students, the moment finally came. It was the hermit’s turn. He held the attention of the entire class as he stood up, smoothed down the creases on his toga and cleared his throat. He glanced around the room at the various strange faces and uttered in a deep baritone, ‘Hello, all.’ I was stunned to hear him speak with an upper-class English accent. He paused dramatically before continuing, ‘My name is Herbert the Hermit.’