It's all relative, even in Cambridge

For hundreds of years young men had been gaining a higher education just a few yards from where Lew sat. He left school at fourteen, a working class lad, not lacking intelligence, just lacking the encouragement and confidence such places of learning seem to bestow. I don’t think he looked around him and saw a missed opportunity for himself. It was a world in which he felt he could never belong. This, he imagined, was the world of Milton, Tennyson, Hawking, a world beyond his horizons, his class. But not beyond the ambitions of his family.
“Your granddaughter may study here one day, Dad.”
Lew’s face crinkled into the semblance of a smile. He nodded, I prepared myself for a bitter comment, a wistful phrase tinged with regret.
“I’m knackered. I’m truly knackered,” he growled as he got to his feet. “There’s a pub up the road. We’ll go for that, me and your mother. Come on!”

No punt intended

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.

In the path of famous footfalls

The streets surrounding the colleges gave way to warren-like passageways filled with cobblestone, bottle glass, and wrought iron work. We spotted the occasional gas lamp and flower baskets that dripped with pansies and geraniums. Dark and mysterious, the pedestrian byways of Cambridge were inviting, but where did they lead? Cambridge was indeed a town to wander. These were the same streets and turnings that Isaac Newton, Lord Byron, and Charles Darwin ambled down. Where would they lead?

Free advice is worth...

“Don’t go to Cambridge in the winter! Or even early spring. Ghastly.” A friend who had gone to Cambridge tried to put me wise. “The wind comes howling down across the fens, the land is completely flat. No protection. Bitterly cold. Winter. Even early spring. As I said, ghastly.” He had shaken his head, looking every inch like a wet bulldog, and offered no further explanation. We went there anyway, hoping the early May weather would turn favorably warm. My friend had been right, the approach to Cambridge was flat. Reminiscent of approaching Dayton, Ohio! Suddenly, it’s there. And so were we.

No time to chew our cud!

Prodigal Wife is hosting tomorrow's Skywatch Friday (how cool is that?), so it seemed a good time to introduce everyone to her new photo blog, A Slide of Life, where's she's sharing some of the fabulous photos she's taken on her many travels.
Of course, I exerted some of that mannish charm everyone's talking about this week to save her pictures of England for us--and you've already seen quite a few here--like this peaceful shot of Cambridge.

Thoughts of Spring

Cambridge

Lavenham

Canterbury