Memorable moments: The cobbled vibration

When I lived in London, I took up rollerblading, and it was pure, unadulterated exhilaration. Every weekend, I would skate from Hammersmith through the city streets to Hyde Park for a game of touch rugby. Gliding over the smooth tarmac, weaving through the urban landscape, I felt a sense of total freedom—a modern-day centaur on wheels.

Then, I moved to Cambridge.

I arrived with the same skates and the same excitement, eager to explore the historic city on eight wheels. However, I quickly discovered a fundamental design flaw in my plan: Cambridge was built in the 14th century, and its architects had absolutely no foresight regarding polyurethane wheels.

The city is a labyrinth of ancient, beautiful, and utterly merciless cobblestones.

Rollerblades, as it turns out, do not come equipped with shock absorbers. The moment I hit those historic stones, the "exhilarating freedom" was replaced by a bone-shaking, teeth-rattling vibration that threatened to liquify my internal organs. It wasn't a glide; it was a full-body seismic event. Every joint in my body felt the protest of six hundred years of masonry.

My dreams of skating through the university grounds were quickly curtailed. I was forced to abandon the historic center and confine my skating to a small, humble patch of modern tarmac near my house. It was a stark lesson in historical compatibility: you can’t bring 21st-century momentum to a 14th-century surface without paying for it in every bone of your body.

Memorable moments: The Ryanair descent

They say airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror. In 2004, while working for Volvo, I learned exactly how "stark" that terror could be. I was on a Ryanair flight from Stansted to Gothenburg—the kind of extreme low-cost experience where you half-expect to be charged for the air you breathe.

Suddenly, the air decided to leave us.

The plane didn't just dip; it plummeted. We fell a staggering 1,000 metres in a matter of seconds. There was a violent, bone-shaking thump that sent luggage cascading out of the overhead lockers like plastic hail. Then, the nightmare trifecta: smoke began to coil through the cabin, the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling with a synchronized snap, and the screaming started.

Even the flight attendants, usually the stoic guardians of "tea or coffee," were white-faced with genuine panic. The man sitting next to me broke down completely. He whipped out a photograph of his wife and twin girls, staring at it with the haunted intensity of a man saying his final goodbye.

And me?

I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s some prehistoric, hard-wired glitch in the Myburgh DNA. Amidst the smoke, the screams, and the falling luggage, I got the giggles.

I tried to suppress it, knowing that a full-blown guffaw would be the height of social impropriety while my neighbor was mourning his own life, but I couldn't stop. I sat there, strapped into my seat, giggling uncontrollably into my yellow oxygen mask. It was as if my brain had decided that if we were going down, we might as well go down finding the whole thing ridiculous.

Eventually, the plane stabilized. The smoke cleared, the screaming subsided, and we landed without a word of explanation from the captain. That’s low-cost travel for you: you pay for the seat, but the life-altering trauma is complimentary.

For weeks afterward, I walked around in a state of pure, shimmering euphoria. I had stared into the abyss through a plastic mask while laughing like a maniac, and coming out the other side made the world seem impossibly bright. It turns out that a near-death experience is the ultimate "reset" button—even if your specific reaction to it is enough to make a grieving father think he's seated next to a psychopath.

Marketing gone too far

While driving home with Ally when we lived in Cambridge, she held out a bottle and said with genuine enthusiasm, "Mmmm. Try this!"

I was focused on the road, thirsty, and caught the words "Sugar Vanilla Nectarine" in my peripheral vision. Naturally, I took a greedy, unsuspecting gulp.

"No! No!" Ally shrieked. "I meant smell it!"

"Too late," I replied, though the words were somewhat muffled by the thick, Mediterranean-scented bath bubbles beginning to foam from my mouth.

It was not a pleasant culinary experience. My breath has never been more "calming," but I am seriously considering suing Boots for deceptive packaging.

I didn't get the refreshing snack I was promised, but on the bright side, every time I hiccuped for the next three hours, I blew a perfectly formed, vanilla-scented bubble.

Nostalgic music from my 30's

Ode to Cambridge

Spent Saturday afternoon rollerblading round the colleges taking some snaps. Cambridge is stunning at any time of the year, but it takes on a supreme quality in the Autumn with its gentle tones and the golden hues. Ah, I'm going to miss this place.

St John's College

Autumn colours

Trinity College

Claire's College

King's College

Autumn in Cambridge

Saying farewell to Colleen and Steve

Breaking rules is always fun

St John's College

Weekend at the sea side

We spent the weekend at East Bourne with Colleen and Steve. Right next to Brighton, the town is similar but quainter and quieter. The weather was glorious.

Highlights

• Leisurely walks along the promenade in the evening sun
• Delicious cheese cake at a 1790's bakery (very quaint indeed and the cheese cake was heavenly)
• Italian ice cream
• Watching the full moon rise from the sea
• Contemplating the beautiful view of the sea from our hotel room - and listening to the lap of the waves during the night
• Exploring the white cliffs at Beachie Head on Sunday
• Watching thousands of birds flying in to roost under the old pier
• Spending time with Coll and Steve - we'll miss them big time

Ally and Colleen have been friends now for over 15 years




Roosting birds

As evening came, 1000's of European starlings started to gather at spots accross the town. From there, they then made their way in mass to congregate on the roof of an old building on the pier. At 7:30 pm sharp, in one enormous flock, they dived up into the air and then plunged down in a whirling, spiralling torrent to take up their roost for the night underneath the pier. We were on the pier at the time (having been told off this nightly pilgrimmage) so got to see it close hand. Managed to duck most of the inevitable missiles from the sky.


The view from our hotel


Lazing by the Beachie Head Cliffs






Mood shots