We walked towards the river Cam and crossed a small, hump-backed bridge. Beneath it were several young men in straw boaters with neckties swung around their waists to hold up their white flannel trousers. These would-be tour guides, local students, playfully accosted us as we passed by, extolling the virtues of viewing the River Cam from the inside of a punt. Clutching and jerking poles around, especially in public, was not my cup of tea. Punting was not for the uncoordinated, the inexperienced, or indeed, for me. Much better to watch. And so we did, from a hotel conveniently located just over the bridge.
The hotel had a lovely terrace and verandah, and from there we happily nibbled toast, slurped tea, and gazed upon the tranquil river traffic and the ancient spires of Cambridge. A little later, we ambled back over the Cam and made our slow progress across a large lawn, towards those hallowed halls of academe. Lew prepared for the march with all the resolve and determination of Scott returning from the South Pole.
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