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.
