travelogue: peterborough

I had to renew my passport which necessitated a day-trip to Peterborough in Cambridgeshire (London couldn't fit me in until days after my travel dates). Peterborough calls itself a 'Renaissance' city and claims to be one the sunniest in the UK. Also, it has a sizeable Italian and Portuguese community. Sometimes, small cities that are off the tourist map and overlooked in favour of more recognised destinations can hold a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect campaniles and sun-drenched piazzas - otherwise surely we would all have ticked it off - but one travels hopefully and I like to keep an open mind.

Peterborough is the gateway to the Fens (La Porta delle Fenzini). Topographically, The Fens is a very flat place between two slightly undulating places, one of which is the North Sea. By contrast, The Chilterns offer almost Tyrolean high drama. It is a landscape at its best in winter, I fancy, when mist and fog descends, lending its Anglian monotony a diffused, ghostly watercolour mood. I noticed that a good many people there were large-boned, healthy and somewhat ruddy of cheek. The latter, not unsurprising, as they are buffeted by a year-round wind straight off the Urals, without an hill between there and Poland to slow its velocity.

The lady at Window 6, at whom I smiled lavishly while handing over my documents in the hope that she might fast-track me, returned my smile with a look of benevolence rare in a civil servant and told me that I could pick up my new bio-metric passport in four hours. Things To Do In Peterborough When You're Waiting For Your Identity. There is the 12th-century catedrale, a splendid example of Early English Gothic, and of which the city is justly proud. Unfortunately, it is surrounded by an example of 1980s style town planning: carbuncular, municipal; an unfathomable one-way system, a branch of Ethel Austin and the predictable attempt at European cafe culture in the form of a small, draughty plaza visited only by mackintoshed pensioners and bus fumes. I ordered a pesto and brie panini. Regrettably, it did not tantalise. Umbria receded and, with it, the promised memory of a distant summer, as I realised that its authenticity lay only in its wrapper.

Stamford. We will go to Stamford. Lying 15 miles to the northwest (20 minutes by car, 2 hours on horseback) Stamford is a gem of a town. Straddling a modest river tucked within the border of Lincolnshire it is a symphony of Regency Gothic - but with the volume turned down - and built in York stone. Unlike other pretty towns, Stamford is too reserved or sensible to Disneyfy itself with the confectionery of souvenir shoppes and themed experiences. There are some antiquarium book-shops (Treks And Palavers by Captain R.R. Oakley, My Vagina, Your Vagina by Dr. Hildegard Hanff), some nice places to buy scented candles and an antique shop. As everybody left this antique shop they said thank you to the Rugby-playing male assistant behind the counter. After years in Spain this strikes me as peculiarly English. What were they thanking him for? "Thank you for being so attractive." Or "Thank you for over-charging me, you devilish brute." We were going to pop into one of Stamford's pubs - which are all seemingly owned by a brewery called Everard's - but it's all non-smoking now, so one didn't see the point.

Back to Peterborough. Picked up the passport. Mission accomplished. Awfully big day out. Snored all the way to South Mimms.