In the morning, as we walk along the back lane, steam puffs out of bathroom vents in the chill air and a black cat perches on an old stone wall.
Wooden toys on the kerb indicate market day.
As we sit down to breakfast the barista catches my eye, “w’ ar’ y’ trinkin’ sar?” with a Dublin accent that could just as easily say “tap’ o’ th’ marning t’ ye”.
I chat to Dad about ways to fix his computer. Conversation turns to updating his business website.
Morning walk through the Saturday markets, second hand book stalls, tie dye tshirts and toys.
A town cryer calls out, public meeting times for local community groups.
A street band kicks up a jaunty tune.
Dad takes me back to Crewkerne station.
A train flies back to Waterloo at what feels like speeds comfortably over 100km/h. (I’m told this line can hit 160km/h.) This driver is not holding back.
On the Underground at Russell Square the intercom announces a fire at Kings Cross prevents the train from stopping there. Everyone on the train shrugs and gets off. The only option is to walk 800m to the next station. At this point I’m glad I brought at suitcase with wheels.
Halfway to Kings Cross we see a big group of suitcase-walkers coming the other way.
The mix of accents on the train include: loose-tongue London, northern Toff, received English, some Birmingham and some Novocastrian.
It’s difficult to describe an analogue for Cambridge Station – Redfern perhaps – but not really. It is big in scale, and yet small in intimacy.
Coming into Cambridge station and walking out in to the main street, it shouts “we’re here to solve concrete problems and do business.”
The younger 20s people here are completely multicultural, but I get a sense that the teaching staff are largely English. There are all nations of undergraduates in the Chinese restaurants, young couples pushing prams, and the pubs seem filled with 30s+ Anglo people.
I drag my suitcase down small streets of two story houses with pubs, Afghan restaurants, pretend Coop supermarkets that sell Aldi goods, noodle houses.