After dozing back off to sleep at around four, which apparently is when the sun starts creeping over the horizon around here, I snorted elegantly awake at half-past five, stumbled into my running gear, and set off for Grantchester Meadows.
It did not disappoint.
Grantchester Meadows, unsurprisingly, is located in Grantchester, a little village (literally a village, not a town) located about two miles south of Cambridge in the shire county (not joking here either) of Cambridgeshire.
As a not-so-secret fan of all things British and a rather more secretive fan of the TV series Grantchester, I decided to lump my need for rural running in with my desire to take a peek around.
I made it to the meadows in short order--the path begins a little over a mile from King's--and daintily stepped through into what, to me, was open country.
At six in the morning, there really was no one around save a herd of dozing cattle.
I made it into Grantchester itself, had a look about The Orchard, then turned about and tramped back through the meadows.
I decided it would be a great idea to run beside the Cam, and, failing to see a path that would take me closer, bushwhacked it through waist-high plants of indeterminate origin. It was great, of course, to slip through the mud and slick grass.
Then I got back and discovered that I had broken out in hives for probably the first time in my life.
Lovely.
Our first formal hall is tonight, so this will make for interesting conversation.
_____
Upon squelching back from class in the afternoon through frigid wind and more frigid wind, I stumbled across a rally just outside the chapel. With my friend from Berkeley, who apparently can't get enough of protesting back home, I went to nose around a little and listened for a bit to a man proclaiming his support for Jeremy Corbyn, who is on the outs with seemingly the majority of political leaders, not necessarily those restricted to the UK.
"Vote Remain! Vote Remain!" the crowd chanted, as if there had never been a referendum.
I edged away.
It was time to put on a dress. And heels. I think the last time I wore those two in conjunction would have been for high school graduation, which hadn't involved rain, wind, and fifty-degree weather.
My across-the-hall-mate and I staggered down to the dining hall (or Dining Hall, whatever) together and stared at the menu under the disapproving gaze of old white dudes in tights, wondering if we'd stepped across the Channel and wound up in come foreign country instead.
Yes. Dinner was freaking weird.
It was almost like Hogwarts, except there was no Vegas-esque morphing weather ceiling and no Dumbledore to give a welcome-to-term speech. There was just a lot of weird food.
At King's, they apparently lop all your grapes in half.
Surprisingly, the company made the night more bearable since I traditionally prefer to run kicking and screaming from large social gatherings involving clothing without legs.
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