Ely

Ely is luverly. As a first excursion for a rudderless Irish monk, this day trip could not have been more perfect. I awoke at 6:00 a.m., “got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head,” washed and ate without wasting a therblig, hailed a cab, and caught a train after only a ten minute wait. . .so I was in Ely by 8:00 a.m. Unfortunately, the tourist office didn’t open till 10:00. But no matter.

Just looking out on the countryside of East Anglia en route was enchanting: sheep, horses, scullers–you do expect to see Hogwarts around the next bend. You exit the routine train station in Ely and climb to the cathedral. Just follow anyone else who looks lost, but watch out for the aggressively mendicant geese. It was a bright cool morning, perfect, just perfect.

Thursday is market day in Ely, a type of shopping that, as ever, seemed both quaint and frustrating to someone as addicted to Wal-Mart, nay Sam’s Club as myself. Seriatim, you peruse lady’s lingerie, then fish, then chairs to assist the elderly out of a tub, then random junk, then fresh vegetables, then tools, and so on. You simply won’t believe what English butchers can do to a once quite respectable cow.
The first guided tour of the cathedral starts at 10:45, but I went in to poke around on my own around 10:00ish. A brilliant strategy!. . .because it was much easier to take unblocked pictures. But at 10:45 I did join the group guided by Malcolm who was a very learned and charming docent. He quickly realized I had an unhealthy interest in all things medieval and tended to frown whenever he said “Henry” or “Reformation” or “Cromwell” or “Victorian.” The tour was only supposed to take an hour, but we were nattering on for at least an hour and a half.

Afterwards, I went back to the tourist office, which happens to have been Cromwell’s house in Ely. Cromwell had married into the (newly) wealthy Stuard or Steward family, who wanted to claim affiliation with the royal Stuarts, but whose ancestors were probably “Pig Keepers” (i.e., “wardens of the stews”). I suspected as much.


Anyway, I crossed myself three times and entered the Cromwell house. I wish everyone worked for British Heritage. I asked one simple “where is?” question and exited with ten maps, twenty coupons and a lollipop.

I walked through the meadows to the river front. This was when I most missed the company of my wife and my kids. My camera battery was dying. My lack of sleep was catching up with me. So I headed back to my Cambridge. . .hardly home as yet. Weep, weep.


Back in Cambridge at about 2:00 p.m., I decided to try to walk from the train station to Wolfson and so save the £7 cab fare with tip–about double the “return” (or “round-trip”) train ticket. It was a brisk 30 minute walk. Given my (utter lack of a) sense of direction, I’m surprised I made it, actually. I remember every sight along the way, but I have no sense of “the way” itself. I smell an allegory in the making.