Last week, while wending my way back through King’s after a particularly dismal trip to the UL (yes, I do have my bloody university card on me somewhere, but look at all my bloody books, obviously I’m a bloody student), I was so typically taken up in staring at my feet and scowling, that I almost walked into several other students. While this on its own is hardly a remarkable occasion (a general lack of spatial awareness coupled with an inability to concentrate on more than one thing at once, talking and walking in a straight line being a common issue), it did prompt me to stop, take a shivery breath and consider my surroundings, if only to see how best to avoid any further moving obstacles. I won’t claim a sudden epiphany in the middle of the court, but I did stay still long enough to notice a few things and quietly wax philosophical to myself about the nature of us all. 

First, King’s is really quite pretty. Who knew? All that stained glass they’ve got in the chapel – it kind of glows against all the grey clouds. And the river isn’t half bad when it’s sparkly and reflecting stuff , with all its bridges and punts (okay, maybe we could do with fewer punts). More noticeable and thought-provoking, (alright, that might be too strong a term), is that everyone else was also scowling at their shoes. All of them. King’s is happily twinkling away and not one of them seems to have noticed. While I’m definitely not in the position to preach, considering that my moment of truth came mere minutes before, it does seem like a shame.

If I asked you to describe Cambridge, what comes to your mind? Tourists, punt touts and slow moving families with whole contingents of toddlers. But maybe the people with all the fancy cameras and an inability to stay within the confines of the pavement have (dare I say it) clocked something that we haven’t. 

Cambridge isn’t just cool. It’s incredible – historically and architecturally. And I’m not just talking about all the casual Wren dotted about: parts of Fitzwilliam won a RIBA award in ‘96 and that guy who designed the suspiciously shaped UL is also the guy that did the Tate Modern. And this is before we’ve even got started on all the traditional older colleges. But even the parts that haven’t received international acclaim (The Daily Telegraph voted Robinson one of the ‘50 most inspiring buildings in Britain’ in 2008, I kid you not) are still worth more than a half-hearted eyeful. Cambridge is full of endless nooks and arch-adorned crannies that stand silently by, ignored by all of us too preoccupied with our own impending essay crises to stop and consider. 

Sometimes I feel that everything here can just get a little bit too hectic, as I speed cycle from one supervision to the next. I’m not saying that five minutes staring at traditional stuccowork will actually help you to understand theories of transnationalism and how they relate to early twentieth century Japanese colonial ambitions, but I certainly felt quite refreshed (and a little pleased with myself) after I’d pottered back through town, mentally exclaiming at all this newly discovered wonder. Maybe we all need to make an effort to expand our experience of Cambridge.

So, why don’ t we slow it down? Stop in the middle of the street, I dare you; all the tourists do it already. And it’s about time we started getting in their way.