"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on a foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land" - G. K. Chesterton
I have been lucky enough, or unlucky depending on your point of view, to have lived all over England. My Dad often need to travel with the bank (when I was younger, "the bank" was an omnipotent demi-god that controlled all it surveyed) and every three years or so we would embark on that well-spun merry-go-round: new house, new school, new friends, new surroundings. As an impressionable young boy I was convinced that such perpetual motion was merely human nature, and that being in the same house for more than a few years at a time was at best laziness and at worst stagnation. There would be periods of readjustment, certainly - friends would fade out of the metaphorical rear-view mirror, and be replaced by more exciting friends on the horizon - but I think I was young enough to take such cycles of uprooting in my stride.
In the course of my Forty Two Days (now elapsing at a worrying rate) I plan to revisit as many of these places as I can. For some I was young enough to have no permanent recollection (Cambridge, Ipswich, St. Ives), and for others I was old enough to know they are worth revisiting (Wakefield, Bristol, Durham). Having already conveniently ticked off Durham for the wedding, and reminded myself of quite why I enjoyed my life there so much, an opportunity arose to visit Cambridge when I found out my Mum was there visiting her sister and my Nan. A mere forty-five minutes from my favourite train station, I was delighted to tag along.
We lived just outside Cambridge, in Milton, for three years while I was attending primary school. Whenever I think of the city, I always think of a static photograph in my mind of the street where we lived (though I can't remember the house itself, nor my school, for the life of me), or visiting the good chunk of family that both my parents have stationed here. There was an annual ritual that continues to this day where we would haul a bootload of Christmas presents in whatever car my Dad had at that point (I always remember the Vauxhall Cavalier most clearly), drive along seemingly endless motorway and tour Cambridgeshire. We would stop at various relatives' houses to exchange presents and to gulp down tea or ham sandwiches, catching up on news and views and chattering excitedly about how much they've grown or what GCSEs they're taking. Through my teenage years I was reluctant to undertake this annual pilgrimage but now in my mid-twenties I look back on those times fondly - you only really appreciate family to the fullest when you realise how rarely they touch your life.
Pulling up to the station and being met by mother, grandmother and aunt, I was immediately at home. The fact that I only really saw that station platform, the road, and my Nan's house didn't matter a jot. Sitting in the sunshine with bacon rolls, Chelsea buns (as opposed to splodges) and tea made with love and care, chatting to family I hardly ever see, I was completely carefree. The world was outside somewhere - for one afternoon, at least, I could forget the riots and the unrest that are plaguing London, and relax where everybody knew my name. I can't wait to go back.
