The River

Three days every year, the river is empty.

The first happens in February. It's a cold Sunday morning, and the river is quiet. In town, college rowers are waking up, nursing hangovers or maybe still celebrating blades and drinking spoons into oblivion. BCDs are over, and now all that is left is the cold. Some of the town clubs may venture out, in singles or doubles, but for the most part, the river is calm. This might be the quietest of the three days: it's still very cold, and it doesn't get light until almost 7:30. Who would want to be on the river anyway?

The second happens in June, and it is bittersweet. The sun is shining, it's been a hot week. The Plough has punters sitting on the garden, having Sunday roasts. The cygnets have hatched, and if you look closely at the bushes you will notice where leaves have been ripped out for laurels. Locals walk up and down the tow path enjoying the weather and the closeness to the water. But it's also the day after an ending. For many, the previous day is the last time they will race in a boat. The glories of Easter Term rowing, with never ending evenings, are over. For many, this is the last Cambridge thing they will do before they leave the university for good. But it's still a beautiful day, and the quietness of the river is just the calm after four days of joy and excitement.

The last day happens in July. The students have left Cambridge for the summer, and this is the only day when the river is truly empty. Or is it? If you woke up early enough, you might have caught a naked 8+, or a quad, showing off their hard work for the season. But if you come later in the day, you will feel the end of something. On the Cam, it's the end of the rowing season. Most people will be taking a few days off from training. Some will be leaving. The river is stunning, and nothing appeals more than a cold beer drank on the bank, but the thought that Bumps is over, that there is no more beer tree, no more crews to shout at, or friends to say hello to, is too hard to stomach. Not to mention too many rowers are sleeping off the excesses of the night before. Which club got shut down for playing music too loud after 1AM? Who slept in the boathouse?

Yesterday the river was empty too. But there was no sense of joys past. It was just quiet. No coxes talking firmly to their crews. No strong finishes with a satisfying clunk as the blade settles in the gate. No blades cutting into the water cleanly, or splashing into it. No coaches shouting at their crews, no crews racing up and down, trying to shave off a few seconds off the 2.6K course. It was a warm May evening, it was light until well over nine, and yet. The clubs are shut. The students have gone home. The river is at a standstill. There are still people walking on either bank. Dogs splashing into the water to fetch balls. The swans have confidently taken over the emptiness, their cygnets enjoying the safety from blades and boats. But it's not the same.

We'll be back, of course. The clubs will reopen, at first for singles and doubles, then for more, and we'll be back on the river. We'll drink beer after races, and wake up early to get a long session in. We'll row again. But we will have lost a glorious season. Many will have lost a last chance to row in Cambridge. Many may never be back. So I mourn for a lost summer. For the boats I won't get to cox. For the bumps I won't get to celebrate (and the ones I won't get to award). For the summer mornings sitting on the boathouse balcony chatting about nothing in particular. For the debriefs, the races, the training. Yes, we will be back. But for now, I don't think I'll be going back down to the river.