I spent some time today with my friends Tim and Jane. They live in a quirky house in Littleport.
The thing about this part of the world is that up until a couple of hundred years ago, most of it was underwater. Rising above the shallow marshes was the so-called 'Isle of Ely', a tiny city huddled together on a mound of dry earth. Just a few miles away, in view of the monumental cathedral and squashed together on its own promontory, was the village gathered around the little port.
Nowadays you can drive from Ely to Littleport without so much as a splash through a puddle. And so that's what I did today, to see my friends.
"We offer two types of tea," said Tim, eyes glinting with the firelight flickering in the wood burning stove. "Nice tea and nas-ty."
"I'll take a nice tea if you don't mind," said I with a smile. When it turned out to be Russian Caravan, I began to wonder whether I'd popped my clogs and floated into the afterlife. We chatted about music, about working in a software company, about Jane's experience as a professional artist and some of the difficulties that creatives face. A sumptuous fruitcake appeared almost magically, and disappeared under less mysterious circumstances. The tea flowed, the fire cracked and the music played. Beautiful.
Ah, but everyone's lovely here. When I got back to Billy and Anita's home in Ely, I was struck by how peaceful it is. They'd argue that family life is at odds with a sense of peace, that their vivacious trio of little misses sometimes exasperate their tranquility and exhaust the house of any quietitude it gained while they were asleep. I disagree.
Yesterday, Pastor Billy asked if my visits there had informed my view of the art of parenting. I said I felt unable to comment on the subject, which is not entirely true, but always seems like the safest answer from a happily unmarried and childless singleton. There are some subjects which have land-mine written all over them.
No, I disagree because I don't think peace has anything to do with volume or energy or behaviour or vivacity. I think it's a much more internal quality. I know because I can take it with me.
Down the M11, round the M25, along the M4 and into Reading. I could do with remembering how I felt with a cup of Russian Caravan and the grand piano.
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