Cambridge Itself...

... was grand. Except for the stupid studenty types EVERYWHERE. Just posing and looking fashionable and generally alarming. And a lady who rode her bike directly at my face.

Hence the first words I uttered in this fascinating city were 'Woah. For fucks sake!'

I know, Wordsworth would have been thrilled.

Just a flying visit, really. I scooted into the city centre, searching for a tourist office where I could pay £1.50 for a map. Luckily there was one and I paid £1.50 for a map, but not before I'd sloped through Market Place, pretended to be interested in some jewellery and leather belts, and laid down some cold hard cash on fudge. In a range of flavours, and all home-made. Thanks lady.

After the tourist office excitement I walked out, trying not to knock stuff over, and dragged my heels down the cobbled streets, following a sign for 'The River and Backs'. At this point I'd not quite got round to looking at the maps, but I didn't need to yet. It was England for Christ's sake. I had a little wander round, did some jokes in my head about punts and did a nice circle past post-exam picnickers and punting punts and weeping willows, trying to remember if this is where E.M. Forster set part of Maurice, and was I getting that mixed up with Brideshead Revisited, and only now realising their shared an author, so probably.

Anyway, I had a little sit down, caned off some fudge, watched an entire herd of cows use the footpath and then looked at the map, which helpfully had laid out a simple walk.

The brilliantly-named Trumpington Street showcased some lovely buildings, as well as a fish restaurant where apparently, kids eat free. Yeah, because kids aren't stupid enough to eat fish, generally, unless it's wrapped in two tons of breadcrumb and flavoured like chicken. Peterhouse, the oldest college, was yet another closed to the indignant viewing public, so I had to check it out very carefully, so they didn't realise I was interested and feel like winners. Not that anyone was watching. Except maybe a smarter counterpart of myself, tucked away in the corner of one of those little windows somewhere.

Anyway, The Fitzwilliam Museum (The Fitz, if you like to give museums trendy short names, like we're in New York or something) WAS open. I had a triumphant little potter up those steps, past the impressive white columns, pausing to check out - yes, as expected - an elaborate and highly understated ceiling in the entrance portice.

Inside, a little security man told me my rucksack would have to go in the cloakroom. This annoyed me as it contained my tampons, but not enough for me to take them out and wave them in his face. So instead I was just disdainful to him and extremely nice to his colleague, who I checked it in with. The annoying one thrust a special exhibition leaflet at me and said I MUST see it. But I didn't look at the leaflet. I just went to check out the mummies and the Ancient Egyptian stuff, then I went to the loo, which was by the Romans. I guess they don't like the Romans.

What can I tell you about the Egyptians? Well, a lot of creepy afterlife stuff, now, but let's not. I'm going to highlight the exciting facts that a) we COULD have just respectfully left those sarcophagi alone, b) sometimes when they unwrapped the little animal mummies there was nothing there and c) sand is really good for drying and preserving. Oh, and that Egypt is part of Africa. But I think you already knew that.

After that creepy little wander downstairs, I headed up the grand staircase to first floor, where they had a truly fab selection of paintings.

Now I'm no gallery-goer and have the attention span of a gnat most-days, so my approach is generally to scoot through and spend a bit of time checking out the stuff that really catches your eye. In that way you're going to instinctively get the most out of your brief visit, right? So they had a lovely bit of Constable and Pisarro and a great room for French Impressionism. There was a Monet, but also some Renoir and... nope, forgotten their names already... Degas I think, and  Seurat. Just fantastic landscapes that are completely arresting, but only when you're not looking directly at them. Like stars. You can see a cluster much more clearly if you're just looking from the corner of your eye. I just think it's great how those artists had the vision to make thousands of meaningless tiny blobs or swipes or brush strokes, and just somehow KNOW that when they all were in the right place, you'd get a fab picture. Like some sort of magic eye. I dunno. That's about as far as I go with art. Another room was devoted completely to flower paintings. My favourite two showed random objects - bugs, brooches, pins, scattered as little incidental but telling details around the base of the vases. Great. Enjoyed that.

Anyway, when the time was up attention-wise I sacked off the Fitz and  walked down Free School Lane, pretending I was in another age, because you can do that there, and the museum had put me in a rather wistful sort of mood. Then of course I had to check out the breathtaking Kings College and Senate House, outside which a man was playing "The Times They Are A-Changing" on guitar, from inside a bin. Evidently his friend had popped him in there. I listened to the whole song and gave him 50p, hoping that would compensate for not asking why he was doing playing Bob Dylan in a bin. Although I REALLY wanted to, there were just loads of Japanese and American tourists I didn't want to get mixed up in them.

Down Trinity street there was yet another market peddling handmade things. It would have been so easy to spend some money and regret it there, such is the appeal of Vases That Look A Bit Like One My Mother Has Had Many Years And Thus Remind Me Of Innocent Childhood Frolicks.

My main interest in Cambridge, for no particular reason, was the Bridge of Sighs, which I nearly didn't see because a man wanted to charge me £4 to go into St John's College to look at it. Reasoning that there are many things I have regretted spending £4 on in my time (that's you, Ryman whiteboard languishing under my desk at work) this would not be one of them. The courtyard would have been eerily close-sounding if it wasn't so full of tourists and people Dressed Rather Smartly for some sort of drinks thing in the hall. The bridge was beautiful. No idea why bridges are so appealing, but they. just. are.

Plenty of Punts full of punters made their punting way along the Cam beneath it, and the adjacent bridge from where I stood. The church-like windows and elegant roof make it quite a spectacle. I just did a little reading about it and have discovered, disappointingly that it was named after the sighs of pre-exam students and build in only 1831. Bloody students again. I thought it would at least have some sort of mediaeval love story attached. Wish I'd just made up my own ruddy facts.

Anyway, after a little scoot around the grounds, a thorough, geriatric perusal of the flowerbeds and a careful evasion of someone's wedding photos, I walked across the bridge, stood for a moment at it's apex, hoping something  special would happen, and then left, telling myself that magic had been set in motion. This was not the case, however, as we now know the bridge was only built in 1831 and named 'sighs' after some bloody, morose students.

Well, the highlight of my trip being thus over and the sun being out, I did a little more wandering, through  Christ's Pieces where I saw a drunk lady roll over backwards in a flowerbed and begin to sob like a toddler, then across Parker's Piece where a jaunty cricket match was taking place. All very English and quaint, I think you'll agree.

Why are these parks called Pieces? OK, as if I haven't learned a lesson in disappointment, I shall look this one up. Apart from being a Scottish name for a sandwich 'piece' means, part of a larger whole. Fascinating what you can find on the internet. I guess Parkers and Christ must've just tossed a coin / piece and divvied it all up. This is all I can find on Wiktionary. But who gives a crap eh?

PIECE: Middle English pece, from Anglo-Norman peece, peice et al. and Old French pece, piece et al., apparently from Late Latin *pettia, *pettium. 

Anyway, I rounded off my day, like any good day, with a detour through the student domain surrounding the station, and a trip to M&S food for a bottle of flavoured water and their teatime selection (This, accompanied by the FINEST fish and chips was the making of my Saturday night)

Why did I write all this down?