Real Ale, Gin and Honey Still for Tea. Bob Dylan Sounds a Warning in Grantchester

Peregrine photographed by Jo Sinclair, June 2020

The dog days of summer in Cambridge, 2020. A trip to the city centre is a revelation, the tourists apparently photoshopped out. Walking unimpeded by crowds and selfie sticks gives the freedom to see more, such as architectural details usually overlooked. Henry VIII looks down on me from a King’s College turret and a Cambridge peregrine falcon strikes a gargoyle pose.

My home town is still gloriously green despite the heat. The River Cam is a big influence on the city’s wilder spaces; the marshy common lands along its course survive modern times, still grazed by cattle and leading from Cambridge’s heart out into the countryside with paths direct to Grantchester village.

Last week I decided on a river swim before meeting a friend in a Grantchester pub garden. 

From a glassy new build with grand designs I followed a path alongside Skater’s Meadow nature reserve. My member's key opened the gate to a sylvan garden with riverbank lawns. I draped my clothes over a privet hedge. On the steps down to the water I let cool water lap warm limbs. A young man yelped at the cold as he swam upstream. Acclimatised, I glided in. Swimming towards Cambridge a heron landed close to me on a fallen tree. It sipped the water and eyed me casually, unperturbed by breast-stroke and bobbing head. Turning towards Grantchester Meadows with views of weeping willows and grazing cattle, I saw swifts scythe the evening sky. The last of 2020’s summer visitors, these migrant birds would soon be gone.

No punts, canoes or kayaks that evening, just swimmers and swans. In the age of Zoom it’s liberating to socialise in a wild space. I enjoy the novelty of making a new acquaintance while swimming like a frog. First impressions are free of wedding outfits, barbecue casuals or fancy dress. Even swimwear is optional here.

After talking to a swimmer who told me she’d just had a lovely chat with a robin I peeled trailing waterweed from my thigh and set off for the walk to Grantchester. The famous Grantchester Meadows, owned by Cambridge University’s King’s College are enjoyed by the masses, who treat them like a country park. One of best watering holes in the village is the Blue Ball, smart and thriving but with a residual tinge of more eccentric times.

The first time we'd been in a pub since lockdown eased, my friend and I headed to the back garden, nicely landscaped and festooned with lights strung around a pavilion and a grapevine. A warming whiskey seeped into my bloodstream after the cool river swim. His agenda: a national bat survey. Keen to stretch out these summer nights, I’d volunteered to join him. We waited for nightfall before setting off.

Grantchester Mill Pond. Photo by Jo Sinclair

Along the High Street we passed The Cambridge gin distillery but the Green Man pub was sadly boarded up and Gothic-looking. Behind a wall four alpacas spat, and wrestled on their knees. Playfighting? One of them bleated like a baby. Down the dark public footpath past Jeffrey Archer’s house a black horse sculpture stands sentry at Grantchester Mill Pond and bats fly from under the arches of the road bridge. It's the tenth year my friend has monitored the river between Grantchester and Newnham for the Bat Conservation Trust’s Waterways survey. My job was to set the timer for four-minute intervals while he counted the ‘passes’ that clicked and sputtered on his bat detector. The different frequencies the machine picks up indicate Daubenton’s, a species of river bat, and serotine. During the survey we saw tiny pipistrelles and a larger species whose silence picks it out as possible long-eared.

Up the high street and into the famous Orchards a Bob Dylan song was mysteriously playing beneath the apple trees, a reminder that we're on the eve of destruction.

For each four minute duration standing in the dark I tuned into different senses. The wind picked up and I could hear posters on the gate posts flapping in the breeze.One for a lost dog, the other an angry warning about the horrific consequences of littering. I  heard ripples in the water and strained my eyes imaging an otter. A feint kiss could be a Daubenton’s bat smacking the surface of the water to grab a moth or fly. A bird called beyond the squeaking and creaking of a sprawling weeping willow tree. Aeroplanes and construction cranes blinked red lights. The church clock chimed. No, Rupert it does not stand at ten to three, but yes there’s honey still for tea. White swans floated calmly on black water. A palimpsest of the day could be felt in the breeze on the skin: warmer on sun-baked pasture, cooler in the shade of the trees. The summer air was scented with cow dung, an odour I’ve loved since childhood times on a farm. The warm, dry smell of chaff blown in great dust clouds from combine harvesters wafted our way.