It’s a place so near to my heart it’s poking it. Cambridge England, with smells of roasted bratwurst and tastes of Thornton’s chocolate lingering on my tongue it’s a place of history surrounded by rural beauty.
What a place! Bicycle rides with long flat stretches over greens beside the still moving waters of the Cam. Cambridge is lush. Cambridge is wet. Cambridge is in my blood.
It really is a part of me. So much of me was shaped by this place. And still is. I can smell the musty books of my father’s trade. I can hear my mom laugh and giggle as we tickle and play in our house off Marlow Road. What a wonderful place to grow. What a wonderful garden for human beings to thrive in.
Time spent punting on the Cam didn’t really feel like time at all. Cambridge is a place so rich in history time takes on a different quality there. You can feel time slow when it’s set in the relief of the majestic.
Bursars and robed professors and students hustling about the place. Musicians plying their wears in the open market. Busy streets with people flushed red with health.
The Round Church, the colleges, the feel of stone, the echoes of Cathedrals and halls, libraries, chapels and the rich oak framing all. The sound of dining hall dishes echoing off ancient walls. The taste of five alive after church. The mixture of old and new. All seems to come together in this small place.