As all Cambridge folk were slowly flocking to Grantchester today, performing what is called a “first post-Christmas crawl” (in order to burn all the 50.000 calories in one brisk walk, as the author of Very British Problems has pointed out), L. and I decided that all the Grantchester locals should have flown to Cambridge instead—just for the sake of entropy.
Anyway, the crowds throughout Lammas land, Grantchester Meadows itself and the village, were ginormous: people who looked like they’d been preoccupied with eating cheese, pigs in blankets and turkey with pudding pretty much 24 hours around the clock (and don’t forget Prosecco, Port, Pino Grigio and that red wine that Steve brought to the table around 3 p.m.), moving slowly but persistently. Their dogs were much more boisterous, sniffing strangers with all required attention.
The weather was marvellous—not in the sense that people call it when having a polite conversation while collecting their rubbish bins: it really was sunny, and a bit chilly, and fresh. The meadows remained the same emerald green as they were in May, and August, and November.
“Just look at all these swamps!” L. said with a bit of romantic agitation.
“As you are pointing at the most prosperous part of Cambridge that was recently featured in a major news outlet, you should call it Fenland,” said I.
“Ah, sure,” L. replied. “Fenland, that is.”
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