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Cambridge

Kings College, Cambridge

I was on the bus from Oxford to Cambridge. Although only a short bus ride, I was tired from the night before so I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, hindered by the fact that a little girl two seats up was being rather noisy. I had enjoyed the previous night’s festivities with Chris in the Oxford hostel and reflected on my enjoyment of travelling. I reminisced about all my travels up to that point and tried to pinpoint when I had decided that I wanted to travel a whole lot more. No exact day came to mind, it just sort of happened I assumed, so I shrugged and tried to sleep. But as I dozed a pleasant memory came to me.

I travelled through Western Europe with my parents when I was 15 years old. We were driving to Paris when we stopped for a quick bite in a roadside restaurant. I was washing my hands in the bathroom when five teenage guys walked in. They looked to be a similar age to me. Butterflies flew in my stomach and I held my breath as they circled around the basin where I was nervously washing my hands. Suddenly one of them moved forward and addressed me in a long stream of French, a language to which my vocabulary extended only to ‘au revoir’, ‘bonjour’ and ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir’. The other four moved in on me too. I whimpered and closed my eyes tightly, waiting for the fists to pound me and the demands for my wallet, or virginity, or both. But nothing of the sort happened, although I did hear a snigger from five adolescent boys.

I opened my eyes to see the first boy smiling good naturedly at me. In fact, they were all grinning and I suddenly didn’t feel wary anymore. I realised I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone my age for six weeks and felt a kinship with these guys. The lead boy earnestly delivered another long stream of French. This time I didn’t close my eyes but tried to inform him that while I dearly wished I could speak French right now, as I wished to have a conversation with them, I could only in fact, speak one language, and that language was English. Instead I mumbled one word – “English?”

They all stared at me. A silence developed while they stared at me and I stared at them. But suddenly, one of them burst into activity and leapt up and down like a spring, clenching his hands above his head shouting “Leeds, Leeds”. The others took his cue, and they all started jumping around singing “Leeds, Leeds”.

I stared at them blankly, wondering if they were alright in the head, then surmised that they believed I was English and maybe supported the Leeds football team. I held my hands up and shook my head. “No, no, no; Australia!”

They all laughed in delight and started impersonating a kangaroo, hopping around the bathroom. A balding French man came into the bathroom and frowned upon seeing them all hopping around, before retiring to a toilet and locking the door with a savage bang. We all looked at each other and burst into laughter. The lead boy started to address me in French again and I held up my hands again and said “parley vu Englais”, the other phrase that I knew. He continued to speak in French. I listened intently and with no other options available for me to answer him I said, “my name is David”.

He stopped mid sentence. “Ahhhh, my name is Jean” and he eagerly shook my hand. One by one the others shook my hand, introducing themselves in the process. We then had a five minute conversation, using the universal language of body gestures. The boys had no sense of embarrassment and enthusiastically threw themselves into it. I found out they were from Brittany, were in ninth grade and loved football (what else). I taught them the words ‘boomerang’, ’surfing’ and, er, ’shit’ (by their request) and put on a demonstration of Australia’s national pastime, cricket (which involved simulating bowling, batting and appealing with an emphatic Howzatttt!). Halfway through our ‘conversation’, the bald man came out of the toilet and frowned at us one more time before walking out in a huff. One of the boys imitated him walking out and we burst into shrieks of laughter. We were only 15 years old after all.

I was curious to know more about them. I wanted to spend time with them, laugh with them, go to school in Brittany with them even. But I couldn’t. I had two Australian parents waiting patiently in the car for me. I gestured to my newfound friends that I had to leave. They once again came up one by one and shook my hand. Jean was last, he shook my hand, patted my back and said in halting English, “friends”. I nodded solemnly, patted him on the back in return and took my leave.

I was flushed with happiness as I returned to the car. Once there I took out my journal and wrote their names down under the title ‘my French friends’. In another time and place, I could easily have been good friends with these guys. There truly was a world of infinite possibility out there. I like to believe that the seeds of my passion for travel were planted that day. I wanted to have exciting experiences like that all over the world and meet people in faraway places. That is what I still want to do and what I endeavour to do.

The bus rolled on with a rhythmic gait. I snapped out of my doze when the little girl two seats up let off a loud shriek. ‘She’s an active one’ I mused as I saw that several other people were lazily watching her too. Her hapless mother tried her best to calm her down. The little girl was mostly in good spirits and usually shrieked with excitement or happiness. But, as small children seem to do, for reasons known only unto her, she started to cry.

Her face went bright red and the sobs grew in ferocity and volume, until eventually, the mother said in exasperation “Nicky, what does daddy sing to you when you cry?” Nicky crossed her arms and shook her head with a furrowed brow and trembling bottom lip, so the mother sang to her “if you’re happy and you know it, stop your crying!”

With impeccable timing, Nicky stopped sobbing and sang sweetly in return. “And then I sing back to him; if you’re happy and you know it, stop your spanking!”

It was completely involuntary but I snorted loudly and tried to suppress hysterical laughter with limited success. Luckily I was not the only one. Most of the occupants on the bus cracked up. The mother looked horrified. Nicky sat back in contentment after having raised such a laugh and pondered a career in entertainment. The mother shrank into her seat and became silent. I looked out the window and was pleased to see we were on the outskirts of Cambridge.

Five minutes later we pulled into Cambridge bus station. I headed straight to the YHA in Mill Road to dump my bags after briefly glimpsing the Cambridge town centre. As I walked through Parkers Piece, I felt quite happy; I had good first impressions of Cambridge. There were three staff working at the YHA when I trudged through the door and they all looked up and gave me warm smiles. I started to book in for my overnight stay, then on a whim, asked if I could change my booking to five nights. I had made a snap decision. I was going to live in Cambridge for a while.

After a quick nap, I left the hostel and walked straight into Mikes Bikes shop next door, and within ten minutes had hired a nice, simple, dull red bike. It was going to be my limousine for the week. I rode off to do some exploring, feeling slightly nervous that I wouldn’t like Cambridge after all and because I hadn’t ridden a bike in several years.

The Backs

I discovered that bike riding is good for hangovers. As I rode fast through the Cambridge streets and lush green parks, a cool breeze cleared my foggy head. Mikes Bikes had provided me with a handy map that prominently showed Cambridge’s bike routes, so I navigated a course that meandered through the open expanse of Jesus Green towards the river Cam. Here I turned left and lazily rode past colourful houseboats and a lone rower before I came to the start of the town. I crossed over the river via a raised foot bridge and then traversed along The Backs.

The Backs is the area that refers to the lawns behind the famous Cambridge colleges, surely one of the nicest urban strolls in the world. You pass the perfectly manicured lawns, the stunning architecture of buildings such as Kings College Chapel and students and tourists punting on the river Cam. I decided to take a closer look at the Chapel and after locking my bike up next to 50 other bikes, I duly paid the three pound tourist entry fee and went in. The chapel, which took a century to build, is where the famous Kings College choir sings every Christmas Eve. It was an unbelievable masterpiece and I toured it in awe. I would love to have been there when a choir was singing; it would have been perfect background music to the tour.

Punting on the Cam

After leaving the Chapel and watching several tourists attempting to punt up the Cam, kind of hoping that one of them would comically lose their footing and splash into the water, I wandered into the town centre on foot. Cambridge followed the patterns of a traditional old market town and I was pleased to note that it did have a central market place and that most of the streets were completely pedestrianised. The place was bustling and although it had the typical chain stores that every English town possesses, like Bhs, Marks and Spencer, and Boots, it all seemed charming and quaint. I wandered the streets for a while, stopping in a bakery caf� on the main road for a late lunch. I sat amongst chattering old ladies with posh English accents and read my guide book about Cambridge. Perusing the map, I noted that the main road through the Cambridge town centre changed its name none other than seven times in just a few kilometres. I am sure there was an adequate, sensible reason for this but some things seemed to exist just to amuse and perplex me.

I was strolling back to retrieve my bike at Kings College when I wandered past a pub on a narrow side street, called The Eagle. There was a blackboard out the front with a hastily chalked sign that said ‘bar job available’. I wasn’t planning to search for jobs on my first day in Cambridge but I decided to check the place out.

I entered the premises and liked it immediately. The interior was cool and dark, a fireplace was in one corner and the tables and chairs were all wildly varied sizes. It was mid afternoon, and there were only a couple of old men quietly sipping their pints. No gaudy poker machine sounds, loud music or sporting broadcasts met my ears; the atmosphere was smoky, quiet and relaxing. This was what all pubs should be like I thought. I decided I really wanted to work here.

As I approached the bar, the bartender looked up as he dried a pint glass, a perfectly iconic scene. He was a young, bearded man with spiky brown hair, whose name badge identified him as Thomas. He smiled pleasantly as I enquired about the job and told me he’d call for the manager. Thomas and I chatted as we waited for the manager to appear. He had grown up in Cambridge and told me he had only been in the bar job for a month.

“You look like you have been doing it much longer, you seem to fit into the place,” I laughed.

Thomas chuckled and explained that The Eagle was known as a ‘quiet pub’. “We have no poker machines, live music, big screen televisions or jukeboxes. The only background music here is conversation and laughter!”

Thinking back to some of the horribly loud and busy pubs we had back home in Australia, I liked the thought of a quiet pub, a place to have a relaxing chat with your friends.

The Eagle

Shortly a ferocious looking man with streaming red hair and long side burns came striding in and shook my hand vigorously. He really looked like a lion; a scary lion. His name was Richard, forever more to be known as Richard Lionheart. He was a brisk, unsmiling man, but was pleasant enough as he asked me questions about my work experience. I was honest and explained that I hadn’t worked in a bar before but was keen to learn the ropes. In the end, I got the job as quickly as I had got the Kensington Hotel job. Richard said he was sure I’d be able to pick the job up quickly. It wasn’t a live-in job unfortunately but I was still happy to have it. I was due to start in three days.

Thomas had been hovering around in the background during the interview and expressed happiness that I had got the job. I told him that I was living at the youth hostel and might stay there for a while longer. In a friendly manner he immediately offered me a place to bunk at his bed-sit at any time. I was amazed at his quick generosity and thanked him for the offer.

I soon left The Eagle and returned to my bike at Kings College, which was situated on the next cross street. As I rode past the wooden mathematical bridge and the Anchor Pub, I felt happy at how quickly I had got my second English job and started to settle down in Cambridge.

I continued to follow the path that now appeared to be leading me away from the centre of town. I consulted my map and discovered I was headed to a place called Grantchester by way of Grantchester Meadows. It sounded like an awfully lovely place – meadows do invoke pleasant images, so I shrugged my shoulders and rode on.

Grantchester Meadows

Well it was beautiful. The bike path wandered through lush green fields, loosely following the river Cam. I greeted people as they passed me walking their dogs and listened to the symphony of various bird calls. It was a wonderful, relaxing bike ride. Before long I reached Grantchester, a small village with charming old houses. I stopped and relaxed outside The Red Lion pub for a while, pint in hand. It also appeared to be a ‘quiet pub’, which couldn’t have been more fitting for such a quaint little place.

Darkness was descending so I quickly made my way back to the hostel, which seemed surprisingly close to Grantchester. I had found a new home and a new job. It had been a great day.