Coaches from London don't stop where they used to in Cambridge so, instead of the bus station, we found ourselves and our luggage deposited on an unfamiliar road some distance from the town centre. But Cambridge isn't that big (nowhere's that big compared to London) so a ten-minute taxi ride and we were on my cousin's doorstep.
Lots of family catching-up to do as it's ten years since we saw them last and we still hadn't finished by the time they dropped us off at Stansted airport on the following Tuesday morning. Highlights of the weekend: a visit to, and lunch at, the Fitzwilliam Museum. A rowdy night at the pub. A cruise around the bookshops. A look at tourists shivering in punts on the river.
Because all of this took place in freezing cold weather. "Oh to be in England, now that's April's here..." but not in these temperatures.
It's impossible to think of Cambridgeshire--without remembering a poem by Rupert Brooke. As 14-year-olds we were all in love with this impossibly handsome young poet who died tragically (but somewhat unglamorously of an infected mosquito bite) during the first World War.