Oddly enough, I haven’t managed to visit the grand metropolis of Fulbourn during these almost 13 years I’ve lived in England until today, but finally mischief was managed. It took us under four hours (if to include lunch in Fulbourn’s central pub on the High St, The Six Bells) and plenty of sun, which, as I found out later in the evening, was strong enough to give me that unmistakable red face.
The actual road was dull at places (same identical housing from the late 70s here and there), but the closer our destination the better the views became: a flat land, patchy with agricultural fields and wildflower meadows full of the usual cow parsley and dandelions, looking strikingly lovely. There was an old windmill on the horizon, too.
Fulbourn itself seemed prosperous enough to have listed buildings with thatched roofs at every cul-de-sac, and the front gardens were full of lilacs, wild roses and very first peonies: it was evident that the residents were competing with each other on whose terrace looked better. I have no idea, as they all were beautiful.
It felt like we were the only outsiders in the pub, where the local families were having their Sunday roast, but we didn’t feel excluded: the chunky golden retriever decided that we were worthy enough for his company (I mean, we did have some chimken on our plates, but it was besides the point).
The main Fulbourn church looked similar to its Anglican counterparts everywhere in the English countryside, but it didn’t make our visit less pleasant: in contrast to the summery weather outside it was chilly and silent inside, and the only glimpse of how *really* old the place is one can get while reading the names of the rectors and vicars of the parish, beginning from the humble 12th century.
It’s ancient, and quiet, and blissful.
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