I wasn’t going to let a little matter like the grey sky and drizzle stop me from strolling through Grantchester Meadows today. I was bursting to once again enjoy this lovely unspoilt countryside which meanders along the Cam.

While the bathers may have been absent, there were plenty of others enjoying the pleasures of the river, from man’s best friend and a proud protective family of swans with their newborn cygnets, to enthusiastic canoeists and the odd student on a punt.

When we finally arrived thirsty at Grantchester’s Orchard Tearoom, my husband and I slumped in the damp green deck chairs scattered outside under ancient apple trees while others less sturdy than us took shelter inside. The scones were almost the size of a Victoria sponge, and as I write this four hours later, I have no idea how I can eat my roast lamb which I will be serving soon.

I must confess – and apologise – to angering a local resident shortly before getting back in the car. I couldn’t resist picking a pretty bloom from a large bush with branches hanging overhead as I walked along the path, and she came out and accused me of stealing from her garden. A bit harsh, I thought. It’s the first and only time I have done this, my wrists were well slapped. I feel so guilty that I don’t think I can walk past her house ever again. I wonder what Rupert Brooke and his eclectic intellectual pals would have made of this episode.

Grantchester Meadows

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