I love Cambridge, I really do. But sometimes, I need to get out. On Monday I sat at my desk, listening to an audio recording of Book I of Paradise Lost, and staring out of the window at the wispy horses-mane clouds which whispered 'come out, it's warm, it's wonderful, come out' By the time the recording ended, my bags were packed, I had a lunch box of Vietnamese rice rolls ready, and my coat was on.
The cycle to Anglesey Abbey actually followed the normal running route I take past the Cam and it's colourful barges, and then goes further. It was so lovely to speed past my familiar route, which I haven't been on for a while, taking an enforced rest from running because of the pain I was feeling in my feet when I ran (it's so hard to not run when the weather is so gorgeous, and the feet in my heart tap-a-tap a faster, impatient drum beat when I see blue sky, but I have a ballet show and life to perform, and therefore can't afford to ruin my feet).
When I got onto the national cycle route 51, I was mostly alone on the road, and so I belted out a breathless performance of Matt Redman's songs at the top of my voice.
Anglesey Abbey is a country house and it's surrounding gardens and grounds, and a mill which still grinds corn and sells flour to visitors. It's gardens are maintained throughout the year so that in every season they are beautiful and vibrant.
My camera promptly ran out of battery when I arrived, and so I took photos with my phone, starting in the winter garden. I couldn't decide whether the wall of red-twiggy plants made me feel like I was walking by a trench of fire, or through the Red Sea like the Israelites fleeing the Egyptians. Neither seemed right in my state of peace, walking through the gardens with absolutely nothing to move toward, or move away from.
These yellow flowers were my favourite: they were like plant-versions sea urchins, and their branch curved in a way that made it look like a dragon.
The winter garden ended with a beautiful glade of silver birches, which waved gently in the wind, the eyes on their white trunks looking soberly at every person that passed by.
I popped into the Lode Mill which reminded me of Pakenham. A young girl with her family were climbing down the very steep wooden steps from the third to the second floor and she was terrified.
'Mummy... mummy....MUMMY'
When she got near enough, her Dad lifted her down the last few steps, then helped his son (who wasn't at all afraid and basically ran down the stairs to the first floor) The Mum and girl were supposed to start going down, but she was almost sobbing, 'Let's stay here mummy' It struck me how often fear can paralyse us into staying in an in between place where nothing can hurt us - except our own inability to continue. All the same I wish I could have given that girl a big hug and somehow flown her down. It reminded me of the time I was in Temasek club with my Dad, and decided to go on the monkey bars. I was in the middle of crossing when, suddenly, I felt as if I let one hand go to swing to the next bar, I would most certainly fall. I was irrationally terrified, and only when my Dad lifted me down did I stop panicking.
I ate my lunch outside the Lode Mill, with very cold fingers.
Then I kept walking, on toward the Hoe Fen Wildlife Discovery Area. You know how people often have that fear of eating alone in public spaces? Sometimes I have a fear of walking alone in public space. If I'm entirely alone, it's fine. But when I'm alone among people who aren't, suddenly I don't know what to do with my hands. But walking, slowly, through that quiet forest, behind a couple, ahead of a family, I felt quite peaceful. I sometimes had to tell my brain to tell my feet to calm down and take things slowly, but I felt in place.
I didn't see any animals in Hoe Fen, but I did see a puzzling collection of branches tied with colourful string. It brought to mind what I've learnt about the word 'individual' this week. According to the Oxford English Dictionary (which is a word-lovers treasure trove), individual didn't start out meaning 'by itself, singled out from a crowd' as we construe it today. Initially it meant indivisible, one in substance or essence, and was often used to describe the trinity of the Christian Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Like rope, made of many strings bound together to form a single, indivisible entity.
As I walked back, it began raining, and I used my scarf as a hood. Then I glanced at the sleeve of my coat, and realised - it wasn't raining, it was hailing! I was glad to get back indoors at the visitors centre, where I sat and warmed up a little before getting back on my bike for the cycle back and another singing session.
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