To be honest, I really thought that Cambridge was going be full of quite posh, intellectual scholars… being the home of one of the world’s most prestigious universities. I was wrong. By the time I got on the train from London to Cambridge, I realized my silly notion couldn’t be further from the truth. Some of the characters accompanying me on my rail journey could be considered neither posh nor intellectual. At least it put my own mind at ease… I would fit in perfectly fine!
My guesthouse was only 6 minutes away from the station… and although I’d studied the map (I don’t have data in the UK), I managed to completely twist myself around to the point where I couldn’t make hide nor hare of where I was, where I’d been or where I was going. I just stood there, staring at the blue dot on my phone, veering left, then right… then left again. Disorientated as I’d ever been. Finally a lovely lady came along and saved me. Well, she didn’t really come along to save me. She was only walking by and I reached out, desperate for some navigational assistance.
“Excuse me,” I pleaded, “are you local to the area?”
I tried to sound as composed as I could. I always find myself adding an extra softness to my accent so as not to be automatically discarded as a stupid American. When I use the term “American,” I usually am referring to my Canadian kin as well, as we are all “North Americans.” But now, hearing the results of the election, I feel a compelling necessity to thoroughly distance myself from the descriptor. I no longer wish to be collectively categorized.
But… without all my gobbledygook getting in the way, you all know what I mean.
The lovely lady on the street confirmed that she was, indeed, a Cambridge local. Relief must have blanketed my face. Thank gawd. I was getting cold.
As soon as I told her the band of my guesthouse, she pointed directly across the street.
“Is that it?”
My relief morphed into pure mortification, realizing I’d been standing in front of it the entire time. What a fool. I’d been staring at that blue dot so much I’d failed to consider taking in my actual surroundings. Guess it didn’t matter how soft or serene I made my accent, cuz there I was … another stupid American.
Anyway… I checked in and promptly put myself to bed… which only lasted about 15 minutes. Damn jet lag.
I know I keep bringing up jet lag, and I fully realize how nauseating I can be when I dwell on a mundane topic for too long… but jet lag plays a critical role in the beginnings of nearly all my journeys. It would feel wrong to eliminate it from my ramblings. To sum it up in a few words… I was up all night.
Guess what happens when I’m up all night? I sleep until some ungodly hour and subsequently, miss half the day.
I have to break this cycle once and for all.
I had to get out of bed.
I had plans!
I had people to meet & places to be.
That’s right. I was meeting up with Sammy & Josh. I’m sure everyone will remember them from my past travels. I met them on my Egyptian tour… and Sammy traveled through Southeast Asia with me last year, for just over a month.
I was really looking forward to seeing them again… and I even had a little activity for us to do during our visit. It was called Dinky Doors… and I have no idea how I managed to find the scavenger hunt for these bizarre little contraptions, but I did.
They’re actually meant to be portals to other worlds. I’m glad that I read that, as after locating the first couple of them, I was beginning to question my own comprehension of the word, door. They all seemed to be something more along the lines of rockets and time machines. I would say they were closer to something out of Dr. Who than any door I’d ever become aquatinted with.
In their own words ~ “They’re petite portals into other worlds, made with a dollop of humour to spark imaginations and make people smile. There’s even an elaborate story behind them, that you can discover on the Dinky Doors Tour!”
After a quick lunch at one of the most casual chic & ritzy pub I’ve ever been in, we headed out to scour the city for Dinkies. Most of them couldn’t really be categorized as ‘doors,’ so to speak… but they were cool and it got us out, exploring the entire city, despite the consistent rain. It was actually only a light mist, so nothing to really complain about. I had to laugh because Sammy made the comment that “here i was again… making her walk all over another city!”
True story.
I have to walk!
Obviously my knee and heel is quickly putting a painful damper on this, but I am eternally optimistic that I’ll overcome the agony and be back to walking 20 km per day, without an ounce of issue .
I wish .
Once we’d discovered the location of each & every Dinky, we had a quick drink at an outdoor beer garden and then headed back into the centre of town to say goodbye. I think I almost have them convinced to come to Canada! I keep inviting everyone to my “soon to be new home” without actually securing a new home. I guess it’s my way of manifesting…
That evening, I met Camilla for dinner.
When I lived in Crete, in 1999 & 2000, I volunteered alongside Camilla on the loggerhead turtle (caretta caretta) beaches of Rethymno. Together, along with a few others, we were international scientists, diligently patrolling the beaches of Crete.
I wrote about it here… 🐢 https://www.mycrushontheworld.ca/post/verge-magazine-article-5
• • • • • • • • • •
Upon arrival on Crete, my immediate desire to just walk away absolutely skyrocketed.
It wasn't fun.
Our mornings were filled with laborious tasks such as scrubbing rust from metal hatchery poles, painting nest cages, stripping bamboo and filling in potholes. When that was finished, afternoons would be spent manning a local public awareness kiosk, selling merchandise, and trying to raise funds. The work was demanding, the hours were long and the heat was often intolerable.
Dusk found us making our rounds to local hotels, where we would present an informational slideshow educating tourists about the hazards faced by the turtles and encouraging staff and management to remove their beach furniture during the evening hours.
When our days finally drew to a close and utter exhaustion had consumed us in entirety, we would make our way through the tangles of the olive grove we called home, collapse into our respective tents and drift off asleep to the incessant and loud symphony of the cicadas. Slumber never lasted long and 3 am came much too soon. It was at this atrocious hour we would scurry down to the shores of Rethymno for our daily morning survey, monitoring assigned portions of the beach and searching for any sign of turtle activity. There was no glamorous way of presenting it. It was strenuous. It was exhausting.
But after a couple of weeks, something shifted. Strenuous labour made us strong and courageous. Exhaustion fuelled us with momentum and confidence, giving us boosts of energy needed to push forward. We got physically stronger. We built up our endurance. We acclimatized to the heat. We began to efficiently manage our workload. We took pride in our familiarity and our perceived expertise. Volunteering turned somewhat illustrious. We became international scientists (or at least that’s how we saw it).
It became fun.
• • • • • • • • • •
Camilla was my shark buffer and still, to this day, we both remember that. I refused to go into the ocean for a swim unless she was further out, and open to attack before I was. It had been 24 years, but we fell right back into the hilarity of the olive grove groove.
Copious amounts of “compellingly delicious” wine were consumed as we reminisced on old times, friends we’d lost touch with, what we’d done with our lives, what we were currently doing… and what we hoped for in the future.
I’d figured inundating myself with alcohol might rid my body of any left over and unwanted jet lag, and it did… temporarily. Didn’t last long.
The following day, I kept up with tradition and managed to walk another 15km. I meandered through Grantchester Meadows, along the River Cam, and all the way to the quaint and very charming village of Trumpington.
I had read that The Red Lion was a fabulous place to have lunch, so that was ultimately my destination. When I arrived, they were so dismissive of me… and then so incredibly rude, that I left without tasting any of their fares. Jerks. It put a bit of a temporary damper on my lovely afternoon, but I bounced back quickly.
Of course, one is never at a loss for a tavern in the UK, so I popped into the lovely Orchard Garden for cream tea & then treated myself to a Calvin Klein (Cockney slang for glass of wine) at The Blue Ball.
From there, back into the city centre…
Although I couldn’t “go in,” I managed to admire some of the big wig unis from the King’s Parade… Clare College, Queen’s, Trinity, King’s College, St. Catharine’s… etc etc.
In 4 days, I’ve walked almost 90 kms.
No wonder my legs are aching and my heel is throbbing.
Thus concludes my final full day in Old Blighty 🇬🇧 Off to Morocco tomorrow…
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