And snow. Because of course that's what I'm thinking about, and not only because it's what's not happening now. The other day, cleaning a closet, Aelred happened upon a set of pictures I took the winter Helier was a baby, when East Anglia was paralyzed, much as the American South is always paralyzed, by a three-inch snowfall: cars abandoned by the roadsides, buses not running, people exchanging war stories in the checkout line at Sainsbury's while they bought their extra cartons of UHT milk. The day of the actual snowstorm, I had taken Helier across town to see the doctor for some reason or other -- it must have seemed urgent, for me to have trudged out with a baby in a pram while the snow came bucketing down, in the very street pictured above, actually. The next day, after it had stopped, I walked out with the baby again, this time because the beauty of it all seemed kind of urgent, too.
I distinctly recall trying to cross the Seagull Bridge by Trinity Hall, pushing the baby in the stroller, and discovering too late that the bridge was a sheet of ice. We were stuck for a while at the top -- me transfixed by the vision of what would happen if I slipped, fell, and let go of the stroller on the steep downslope of the bridge, Helier either asleep or thinking his inchoate fleece-wrapped thoughts beneath the vinyl weather shield which turned the stroller into a little rolling greenhouse -- until some nice man came along in, I guess, spiked boots or something, and helped us down.
Anyway, here's what I saw on my walk that day. Maybe it'll cool you off.
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| Saint Catharine's College |
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| The lane outside our church. I don't think that's the Vicar's bike, but then again, it might have been. |
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| Memento mori in the snow: the wild garden behind the church. |
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| Punts by the Silver Street Bridge. |
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| Punts with snowman. |
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| Some humble Bible chapel or other, with insignificant human figures. |
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| A view of St. John's, I think. |
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| Not the bridge we got stuck on. |
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| Nor is this one, though possibly it's because I was taking these pictures that I got stuck. |
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| At every turning, something dear to see. |
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| Like this. I'm almost home; it's right across the Piece, in the middle of that row of gray houses. The wind's behind me, pushing me there. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
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11 comments:
Lovely, Sally. Simply lovely! Recently, I have begun thinking about the possibility of another trip over there, including Cambridge at last.
106104105104104 - this row of numbers appeared across the last TV weather 5-day forecast I could bring myself to watch. Thanks for the reminder that it is not thus always and everywhere.
Kamilla, you've really got to go to Cambridge. So many people make it a 2-hour side trip, but it's a marvelous place just to wander, with no end of things to see.
Steve -- ouch. It hasn't been quite that bad here, and we have had rain the last few days, which has cooled things down some, though now my glasses fog up every time I go outside. It's like living in a dishwasher. When I saw these pictures, my first thought was, "Aw, I'll have to wait for Christmas to post them." Then I thought: "What's better than Hawaiian Shaved Ice? Cambridge in the snow!"
I loved reading this. It was beautifully written and a good reminder of looking for the beauty in all our days.
Thanks, Sally! I've only seen Cambridge on one of those 2-hour trips like you mention, but it was lovely! And it is nice to remember snow. We had almost three feet here in Missouri in January - we got an extra week-long holiday out of it.
I am letting myself imagine that today's wild thunderstorm is the last throes of the summer heat.
Thanks, Kim. I have to say, it is very easy to look for beauty in a place like Cambridge, not so easy in other places (which means we have to look harder, which is good for us . . . )
Ethan -- I know, we've had thunderstorms lately, and I keep trying to fantasize that I can feel fall in the air. Not really managing to convince myself, though.
And for a visit to Cambridge, I think four years is about right, if you want to start to scratch the surface.
Beautiful pictures, Sally!
I was reminded of the year my father was on sabbatical and we lived in a converted (i.e., drafty) 18th-century forge in the Cotswolds. As a result of a 2-inch snowstorm, our little village was without power for over a week.
Echo Kamilla here: just lovely. Certainly a sight for my kind-of-modern-mostly-ugly-architecture-up-here-in-Minnesota eyes.
Of course, if you want to talk snow . . . then I might have a few things to say about life up here.
I can't decide if I feel cooler or utterly hopeless looking at those beautiful pictures. The hope for the first cool crisp morning is a physical longing at this point.
My in-laws, who hate heat, are making their first visit to our home in the South this week. If I never comment again, it's because they've killed me for tricking them into coming in August.
I know, Sarah. I don't think I feel any cooler, either. Just kind of homesick.
And whoo, August. Not our best month down here. That's truly giving the in-laws the trial by fire. I grew up with this kind of heat, and it never bothered me at all, but when we came back from Cambridge to the U.S. to live, it was August, and I was six months pregnant, and I thought I was going to *die.*
Laura -- this is the way I like snow. Three inches, and the world grinds to a halt. It happens that way here in NC, too. Perfecto.
Anne-Marie -- How cold-but-fabulous. Our building in Cambridge was Georgian-era, I think . . . anyway, also drafty. They had put in a new boiler and radiators, however, and the entire time we were there, Anglia Gas kept getting our bill wrong, and when we called to inquire they would say, "Oh, don't pay that," so we didn't, and kept the heat cranked. As soon as it clicked off, however, the temperature inside would plummet. I recall being really cold a lot in bed at night.
A year or so after we were married, we drove down to visit friends in Little Rock. At the end of July. From Toronto.
Five Canadians in a small car driving nonstop while the heat and humidity rose and rose.
It took twenty-four hours, because by the time we got there we were no longer capable of telling left from right, and took the wrong turning four consecutive times.
I'm grateful that we live in the frozen North, although, you know, this summer we reached the average temperature in Riyadh for one week in July. Maybe we should pack up and head for Nunavut?
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