When it comes to preaching a sermon of righteousness in Cambridge, normally one finds an empty pulpit and the sound of shuffling feet.
Looking down from the bridge the world of the Colleges seemed so near, so far, and so thoroughly behind bars.
As escape craft went, I’d been coshed unconscious and thrown into worse.
Cambridge: a town built on an accumulation of scholarship, grime and architecture.
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.