Cambridge: a city of churchyards, bicycle racks and cut throats.
The spring sunlight struggled against the long wintry fingers of shadow still clinging to the college courts.
An unguarded doorway in Cambridge is a frightening thing, as everyone knows there is no such thing as an unguarded entrance in Cambridge.
Many of the dining halls of Cambridge are topped with roof lanterns, standing out like crow’s nests on the pirate galleons of scholarship.
I looked at the poor old nun, stone lids tight shut over stone eyes, under a stone wimple. Still, if I’d spent centuries looking out over Cambridge’s neglected corners, I’d’ve done the same.
My heart sank. Second story jobs at a Cambridge college always involved scaling one too many ornamental facades for my liking.
Springtime in Cambridge, when fresh-cut daffodils symbolise those sacrifices of the life of the mind offered up in peer review.
Every now and then Cambridge’s jumble of alleys, arches, gables and brutalist brickwork produces a moment of Escher-like beauty.
In Cambridge I very seldom need a sign to tell me I’m out of my depth and trespassing somewhere I should not be.
I roamed the streets of Cambridge hungry for the truth. Hungry as a graduate student with an un-reimbursed rail fare.
An invitation to a casual lunch with the Master was one I always accepted with a trepidatious shiver, even on the warmest of spring days.
I looked up with a certain dread anticipation. I’d been thrown out one too many windows to relish the idea of a meeting on the third floor.
"You don’t scare me," I growled at the gang of choirboys. "This isn’t the first churchyard I’ve been dragged into to be beaten up." They growled back: "What makes you so sure it won’t be the last?"
Even now, in certain corners of Cambridge, the last of the winter mists clung tenaciously to bare-branched churchyards.
It was here, of course, the College Librarian had gone down in a hail of bullets and a blizzard of index cards.