My road, which you’ve seen in the autumn.
Parker’s Piece, a wide expanse of green just south of the town centre.
A pub on Regent Street.
Cambridge Market goes on through rain, hail and fog.
Shops on King’s Parade.
I’m not sure what the BBC is doing at King’s College today.
On Trumpington Road.
On Pembroke Street.
A carpark at a museum on Pembroke Street. I guess ancient sea monsters need a place to park, too.
Joan in the Matrix
People here tell me that it is unusually mild in England this year. Before I arrived, I was warned that I would be very cold. However, I haven’t yet pulled out my woollen jumpers, let alone my thermal leggings.
The cold snap arrived today. Cambridge has been humming under endless and continuous thick fog. I was thankful for the leather gloves as my bike cut through the biting greyness.
You know it is truly cold when you go outside to empty the compost tray, and the compost bin lid is frozen shut.
I live in an old English town. There are many little stores. I walked into one and found myself surrounded by shelves stuffed with trinkets and knicknacks. I waited a minute before the shopowner came out from the back room. He looked like a hobbit, with a craggy face framed by bushy white eyebrows. His colourful tie was tucked into his front pocket. He even spoke like a hobbit. I walked out with a pair of computer speakers, which he dug out from a mysterious second storeroom.
We get our milk delivered to our doorstep early on Monday mornings. Last week was our first week of deliveries. We had been hoping that the four pints would show up in ye olde glass pint bottles, and that we could put the glass out the next week for reuse by the milkperson.
We were slightly disappointed, though, when the milk arrived in the normal plastic bottles, quite similar to the milk we would by from Sainsbury’s. Nevertheless, it is quite convenient to have milk delivered and it is a good way to get rid of change.
Here is £4.22 for the 10 pints (5.7 L) that we want delivered tomorrow.
We leave this on the doorstep and hope that the milkperson gets to it before a Cambridge miscreant does.
Guy Fawkes Day in Cambridge is a big party. There were fireworks, a fun fair, toffee apples and cotton candy. I went on a ride. It was unexpectedly exhilarating.
We watched the fireworks from the college boathouses. There were signs warning people to only watch the fireworks from the Midsummer Commons (a big field) or from inside the boathouses. We joined the hundreds of people ignoring the safety warnings. I did get rained on with debris. The danger added to the thrill.
Owen, a coursemate, said, “England is the only country I know that celebrates the failure of a revolution. It’s like, every year, the Government sponsors these fireworks and a huge bonfire to burn the effigy of Guy Fawkes so that our leaders can remind people, ‘This is what will happen to you if you try to revolt!’ “
On Friday, I went to the bank to see if my cheque had been cashed. As you know, things were getting desperate.
“Hello! Can you please check if I can get money from a cheque I deposited on Monday?”
The lady at the cashier looked on the computer. “It says the money is in your account now but…” She paused and started counting on her fingers, muttering, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…” She looked up. “We recommend you wait six days before you withdraw proceeds of a cheque. It’s been five days. You can get the money on Monday…” She trailed off as I looked at her incredulously.
The bank recommends I wait five days? She’s doing me a favour by making me wait to get my money?
The lady could hear how silly her statement was. “You could withdraw the money using your cashcard at the ATM over there.”
“I opened the account two weeks ago and you haven’t sent me the details yet. I don’t have a cashcard.”
She looked apologetic.
I decided to play the pity card. “Is there some way, any way, I can get money today? I’ve only got £5 in my wallet now.”
“Let me check with the manager,” she said. I handed over my ID cards and she took them with her into a back room.
Three minutes later, she came out with a key and a smile. “How much money would you like?”
Success!
My first three days in England were spent at the Peak District. It’s a beautiful pastoral area about three hours north of Cambridge. Being used to the wild beauty of places like Australia and New Zealand, the tame English countryside presented a new kind of prettiness.
These sheep were in front of our hostel.
On our ‘day off’, a large group of us decided to climb Back Tor, a very large hill near Edale.
The 2.5 hour walk ballooned into a 4.5 hour hike when our navigator got lost SIX TIMES. He once said, “I’m 99% sure we’re going the right way!”
I don’t normally post photos with recognisable people in them but I couldn’t resist this time. I hope you don’t know him but if you did, you would understand that this photo captures a lot of this person’s personality.
As a group, these scholars represent some of the best and brightest in the world. The following photos show that intelligence didn’t stop us jumping an electric fence or two.
After jumping electric fences, we trespassed on very pretty private property. When people are lost, they tend to be willing to cut across anything to get to a recognisable landmark.
From my friend, Sally.
Ok, imagine you have to drive your car in Swindon, and you’re less than enthusiastic about it, since you only recently passed your test.
…
And then you see this:
You’re starting to wonder what that’s about. You didn’t see anything like this in your driving lessons.
…
And a bit further, you stumble across this situation.
The Magic Roundabout!
Birds eye view…
In the peripheral roundabouts you turn clockwise, in the centre you turn anti-clockwise. As you can see, the traffic problem is essentially solved by scaring people into taking alternative routes.
A delightful explanation of the concept can be found at SwindonWeb.
