A Cambridge Pilgrimage

The journey into Cambridge was, as all successful expeditions should be, mercifully uneventful. We found a sliver of shade for Rita, our greyhound—who possesses a constitutional aversion to the midday sun—and prepared to disembark. Our arrival was met with a minor theatrical anticlimax: a neighbour in the car park was unburdening his vehicle of several flat, promisingly rectangular parcels.

For a breathless second, one imagined a haul of lost masterworks. Instead, the gentleman sheepishly revealed a series of posters for a well known brand of energy drink. I offered a sympathetic nod of disappointment, though I couldn’t help but reflect that in a world where the Tate Modern asks us to venerate a porcelain urinal, a well-composed poster makes a perfectly dignified claim to one’s wall space. I kept the more… anatomical comparisons that we had stumbled into on our last visit to myself.

It was a short walk to the main purpose of our visit, Kettle’s Yard. It remains one of the few places in Britain where the domestic and the divine sit in perfect, quiet harmony. It is still preserved as home, first and foremost, but one curated with a poet’s eye—full of “finding” corners, worn book spines, and that particular Cambridge light.

I’ve always felt a deep, almost visceral pull toward the “naive” maritime visions of Alfred Wallis. There is a startling, salt-crusted honesty to his work that defies the academic. To see his boats bobbing alongside the sophisticated lines of Christopher Wood, Ben and Winifred Nicholson, or David Jones is to witness a masterclass in the “Spirit of Place.” We were so thoroughly seduced by the house last year that we officially became “Friends”—a title that now provides us with a recurring, guilt-free excuse to return to the city. There is never enough time to fully appreciate the depth and scope of the works on display, so there are always surprises, that have previously gone unnoticed.

Stepping out from the Yard, however, is a sharp return to the modern busy, bustling, bicycle strewn world. Cambridge is a city of sumptuous stone and scholarship, where the university buildings loom over the landscape with a sort of ecclesiastical gravity, reminding one of the city scenes in Dark Materials. But the streets themselves belong to the youth. The pavements are effectively paved with students—a blurred, whirring stream of bicycles and electric scooters. Navigating the centre as a humble pedestrian requires the sort of 360-degree situational awareness usually reserved for fighter pilots or rugby fly halves. Stepping out to cross the road requires courage and a degree of faith in one’s fellows. As the light faded and the bookshops closed we agreed that we would have to return, not just for a ‘splash and dash’ but for a longer stay, perhaps a long weekend, and soon.

Retreating from the hustle and bustle we sought sanctuary at The Punters, close to where we had parked the car. Despite the evening rush—nearly every table was a clamour of conversation—the kitchen didn’t miss a beat. The food was excellent, the service sharp, and the atmosphere exactly what one requires after a day of high culture: warm, unpretentious, and restorative.

Then came the “long and winding road” home, with Rita the greyhound asleep in the back and the quiet satisfaction that comes from a day well-spent. Cambridge may be imposing, but in the small corners of Kettle’s Yard, it remains profoundly human.

We will be back.