Having somehow made it to the third and final half-term of my PGCE year, I have found myself with a refreshing modicum of time to spend as I wish, and last night I did just that.

The weather yesterday looked more pleasant than it was, with the sunshine being punctuated by a chilly and speedy set of winds which proved irritating to walk or cycle in. By the evening, this had eased off a little, resulting in the perfect conditions for a Sunday evening’s ramble around Cambridge.

I departed my Mill Rd hovel bound for Hughes Hall, which is located at the town end of the road, where I met a couple of friends and a cuddly woolly mammoth named Rodger. We left for a walk down to the Cam, leaving Rodger to continue his deep contemplation of the nature of spirituality, for this was what he seemed to be doing.

For reasons unexplained, we sat down on a tuft of grass near to the Grad Pad and The Anchor, where the chilliness of the breeze (which had not died off completely) eventually forced the continuation of our cross-Cambridge ramble. And so we headed through town, past King’s and St John’s, and down to the river again by Jesus Green.

At this point during the walk, we saw a group of Chinese students engaged in some bizarre locked hand movements which seemed somewhere between Yoga, a pagan ritual, and a martial art. We walked on prior to some form of forced induction ceremony.

As we neared the streets backing on to Parker’s Piece, having cleared Midsummer Common, we walked past a pub called The Cricketers. Though I had yet to visit it, I was aware of this pub, it being located a literal stone’s throw from The Free Press – a pub I am often inclined to frequent..

We had passed one of the entrances of the pub when we walked past an open window, which of course would have been unremarkable but for the noise resonating through it. The noise, although ‘noise’ is a supremely harsh word to describe it, was the relaxing sound of some jazz music played by a group of musicians inside.

In my mind it was decided, and we had to head indoors. With a glass of the fizzy Guinness procured from the bar (that’s Coke by the way), I reclined in a rather comfy sofa, and unwound into an invigorating sense of relaxation which had been noticeably absent over the past few months.

Soon into my relaxation session, one of my comrades pointed something out to me. She invited me to behold the spectacle of the happiest drummer in the world, for the man on the drums was undoubtedly the most contented-looking drummer I have ever seen.

As the pub gradually filled out over the next hour and the applause for the impressive act increased accordingly, it seemed as though everyone was in a fine mood. There was one exception – a man sat at the bar had been ordering half-pints of ale, looking ruefully away from the act as he sat there in lime green trousers, some white Nike trainers, and a flat cap (a truly interesting ensemble). He looked to be in his thirties, and had the air of someone tortured mercilessly by their own intellect.

For us at least, an impromptu walk and jazz gig had made for a splendid Sunday evening, the likes of which you just cannot plan for.