Punting on the Cam

The cliche for Cambridge is punting. I had to look after a class for a teacher who was ill, and the lesson was a trip in punts. We took them into the city and to the boatyard, where a "touter", or should that be "punter"? gave us a price for our 28 students, reduced it and handed us a written quote which was higher than what we had told the students: £6 each for three punts full instead of the £4.50 we'd previously understood. The kids had started handing over the cash to us when the manager said he couldn't do it for that, only two punts and four of the students would have to punt themselves instead of being punted. There were protests; I think all the boys wanted to do it!
I sat in the front (stern) of a big punt and handed out the slices of stale bread for the students to feed to the ducks.
My goodness there were a lot of punts on the river! In some places there were real traffic jams where amateurs were drifting across and bumping into others. The professionals just glided peacefully through the chaos making it look very easy.
It's a nice guided tour, past the pretty sides of the colleges and their gardens. We were told little snippets of history and tradition, and we threw bread for the ducks who came rushing towards us as if they were starving! On our return we saw the boys who were punting themselves struggling along with all the mess of punts near the boatyard; they'd had a great time, but not got very far.

English summer

There have been some hot days this summer in Cambridge, but the overall impression is wet. Not really cold, but every time I open a door and see the rain, I think: "Not again!" Being used to Pyrenean summers in which it can be wet and stormy but on the whole bright and sunny and not too hot, this English summer is a bit depressing. That thing of not knowing what to wear; what to put on your feet, or if you need an umbrella grinds you down a bit. A lot of the drama of swine flu is just summer colds as far as I can see.
On Saturday I went to the theatre. It was in one of the University college gardens, where, with a small wooden platform and a ladder hidden by a screen, a small company performed Romeo and Juliet under an ancient spreading fir tree. There was a circle of three rows of plastic chairs on the grass. The audience sat down and it started to rain. People got out umbrellas and spread plastic sheets over their laps, some took glasses and bottles of wine out and sipped throughout.
During the performance it rained more, or less heavily nearly all the time. In the interval mulled wine was served from a thing like a tea urn and I warmed my cold hands as I drank.
The cast pretty well ignored the rain. Juliet, in a white cotton nightie got muddier and muddier as the evening progressed. I felt cold for her and for Romeo, who stripped to the waist at one point.
At the close we applauded as much for their fine performance and hardiness in getting so wet for so long.