A few minutes outside of Cambridge lies the village of Grantchester, and within its narrow reach, The Orchard where generations of students and luminaries have taken tea under the trees. One of its earliest regulars was the posthumously famous poet Rupert Brooke, who along with Virignia Woolf, Bertrand Russell, Ludwig Wittgenstein, E.M. Forster, Augustus John and John Maynard Keynes would swim naked in the river, take tea and formulate the works of art, letters and philosophy which built their legacies to the world.
Late this morning Munson and I were the only guests on the lawn, occasionally joined by a daringly hungry robin chasing crumbs, or waved to by walkers as they crossed the grounds. We were too early to see the museum on the grounds even with a short walk of our own around the perimeter, and it wasn’t till after we drove away that I saw where the river lay in relation to the orchard. Wi-fi coverage of the area hasn’t improved substantially since Chaucer set The Miller’s Tale in nearby Trumpington.
From there we had a short final road journey on to London where we’ll be for the rest of our stay. I was jut keeping my fingers crossed that the car would last the journey as it’s been spending more and more time in “limp home” mode since we left Cornwall on Friday. I was going to sell it prior to departure but it’s looking like the cost of making it saleable outweighs any return, so it will be off to the scrap yard.
We collected a key from Chris at noon and after dropping the bags at his place, proceeded to Munson’s cafe for coffee and lunch. Now the car’s work was done and I didn’t need to rely on it further.