Postcard #12, Cambridge
This past year has been as unpredictable and changeable as wily old March; braving outdoor pints under a freckling sun one day, then racing hailstorms back to the house the next. But this has always been my favourite time in the city, and it fills me with joy to be back here now having ridden out a few storms but with smoother sailing ahead. I find myself greeting Cambridge like an old friend, stepping back onto its streets a little bolder, a little changed and living through it just a little bit differently.
See
Afternoon pints on table number 12 in the wood-panelled snug at The Mill; our annual ‘Cambiversary’ tradition.
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The bright pink bluebells pushing through the weeds by the doorstep once again, planted by the family that lived here before us.
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The buttery yellow I am slowly painting the walls of the room where I work; taking breaks to paint when the ideas are getting sluggish and the words are slow to come.
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Bold brushstrokes and vivid palettes of old favourites and new surprises in the upstairs galleries on a long-awaited afternoon trip to The Fitz.
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The family of foxes that prowl the rugby pitch after dark; last year’s cubs are now cocky adolescents that barely flinch when we walk around to lock up each night.
Feel
Early spring sunshine warming ancient limestone in the street.
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The waffle of freshly washed bedlinen imprinted on my cheek as a brisk breeze dances through the window one morning and gently coaxes me out of sleep.
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Wet soil under my fingernails from clearing space in the garden to make way for new growth and sowing seeds to place on the table inside where all my horticultural attempts usually go to die.
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A perfectly crisp new oversized Oxford shirt, pristine white and the ideal spring uniform, found in the charity shop on St Andrews Street - a rare treat in between chasing invoices.
Hear
Piano music drifting down the street as musicians warm up for the evening’s performance while walking into town past the concert hall on West Road.
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The same plump blue tit that perches on the branch right in front of the window my desk looks out on to every day at around 5pm.
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The roar of the crowds in the rugby stands as I walk back home through the fields.
Smell
The college laundry on Garret Hostel Lane where the smell of warm, fresh sheets fills the street and feels like a hug.
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Sea kelp-scented bubble baths on moody evenings following bright days.
Taste
Red lentil soup and shots of Raki in Efes one night; the same perfectly unchanged Turkish restaurant my dad has been haunting for decades.
Until next time,
Phoebe x