Cambridge spans approximately 16 square miles - it is the definition of a small, dense city. Being from a hometown of 15, I have a comparative sense of its size. But in Cambridge, distance is frequently talked about and yet rarely expanded upon – the immersive nature of our term-time territory subsumes our sense of time, space, and movement. I often (and gloatingly) comment on the two-minute journey I make from my accommodation on West Road to Sidgwick site, but I’ve also caught myself in this mode of thinking even outside of lecture hours, prioritising proximity over ‘crossing the bridge’ into the city. I find myself trapped in insular and monotonous cycles of movement, rarely broadening my horizons beyond the spaces I need to be. Is this reflective of the wider student experience at Cambridge: are we caught in a bubble that is blinding us to what lies beyond ‘the centre’?

“Cambridge is not just a map of shortcuts and necessities”

Of course, direction is subjective. If you live further from the ‘centre,’ you simply adapt to your environment. You find your own geographical bubble; an area in which you have access to the shops, study spaces, and social areas that you need to make your life in Cambridge as comfortable as possible. But it’s the student mentality that interests me here: it represents something deeper than the geographical proximity of these sites of interest. It’s the psychological perception of ‘distance’ as being an inherent obstacle to our academic pursuit of time efficiency. It ties in to our patterns of endless productivity; as though the journey, regardless of distance, has to be for a purpose, must be justified by an end goal, be it a place of study or a food shop. In making a list of priorities for the day, I often find the initially enticing idea of going on a long walk with my headphones as increasingly unimportant in comparison to a short journey into the centre, from which I can head to a library, to shops, and to busy social areas. The truth is that nothing is actually ‘too far,’ but that we perceive it to be.

I spoke to Archie about the motif of things being “too far,” and, as a fellow Norwich-ite, he agrees that this feels like a Cambridge phenomenon. “Compared to Norwich, which is just a bit smaller than Cambridge, journeys past the centre are far more standard, and I rarely meet people there that complain about the distance, even if you live the whole way across the city from your friend,” he tells me. Amy, who finds herself caught up in this pattern, agrees with this. “I find myself saying ‘ugh, I can’t be bothered to walk there’ frequently,” she shared, even though often the distance is far lesser than that she would make back home. She highlights how places feel “enticingly close,” and the fact that, if not out of necessity, there is little need to venture beyond the several streets that provide you with exactly what you need.

This seems to be a product of our collegiate system too. With friends nearby and thus opportunities for socialising “enticingly close,” a setting further away from this social hub pales in comparison to the easy option of staying put. Jonny says that “when you have constant work due there’s no real time to ‘explore’ – the close proximity of where everything you ‘need’ is how you evaluate how worthwhile a journey will be.” So, is it impossible to maintain a positive attitude towards travelling further out while balancing the academic rigor of our daily routine?

“When you have constant work due, there’s no real time to ‘explore’”

This is not always the case. Esther is a student who has actively taken it upon herself to ‘venture out’ beyond the centre-focused spaces that Cambridge has to offer. Weather permitting, she spent “lots of time in the summer in Grantchester Meadows, in a place 2.8 miles away,” enjoying a break from the overwhelming centrality and familiarity of student life. She says this active defection from the city “is worth it, to be in such a peaceful environment by the river and so close to nature.” Of course, Cambridge is a green city – even in the centre – but there is something to be said for a break from the city centre footfall.

The vibrancy of student life is what gives the centre its unique atmosphere, but there is a stark drop in the number of students only a mile in any direction from King’s Parade. Evelyn, who lives at Cambridge all-year round, notes that “the city is much more alive when students are present. It’s almost at a standstill when they aren’t here.” The central mindset is driven in part by the students themselves, their patterns and interactions in what Gabriel calls the “little ecosystems” of college areas – and, notedly, where they choose not to go.

The insular mindset can be difficult to shift. The psychological weight of proximity still reigns supreme in most of our lives, not as laziness, but as part-and-parcel of the deeply-immersive collegiate and community feel that each college affords. Perhaps it is this immersive quality that makes Cambridge so unique, yet also so insular. The city thrives on its close-knit communities, but this same structure often dictates how far we’re willing to stray. Perhaps the true challenge lies in questioning these self-imposed boundaries – not to romanticise the idea of ‘venturing out’ but to recognise what we might be missing when we don’t. Cambridge is not just a map of shortcuts and necessities; it’s a place shaped by the choices we make about where, and how, we spend our time, even in the smallest slivers of freedom.