Cambridge creeps me out. I suppose it was bound to feel like this, it being a mid-sized town attached to an institution with as fearsome a heritage as its University. It feels as if the whole town cowers under the gaze of those fearsome, self-satisfied colleges, which, notwithstanding the odd toe dipped in egalitarian waters over the last few decades, stand remorseless and unrepentant in their pursuit of disgorging acolytes schooled in the ways of self-defining genius. But the worst aspect of it is that the town’s apparent submission to the gown is not reciprocated: these handsome old blocks are all about the tourist dollar. The collegiate domination of the town is sold to your day-tripper in a tedious, it-plays -well-in-Illinois fashion. It’s all so cosy, so bland. I imagine the town busking anthem to be that bloody Bach Cello Suite, played by a viola quartet dressed in black tie.
There is no problem with blatant elitism round these parts – many with that mindset have worn tremendous duds, written marvellous things, built stupendous monuments, and so forth. But you sense a griping sense of expectation amongst the students you encounter in the town. It seems to the layman that they are as recognisant of their forebears and their popular image as, say, an American state trooper, and – the galling part – eager to further this image by wearing flapping scarves and talking about philosophy, loudly, on street corners, with similarly-attired friends.
This is not to suggest that your outward appearance is inextricably linked to your character, but for heaven’s sake, where’s the progress? Can a town in England, in the 21st Century, still be populated with teenagers swooning with delight at their resemblance to Alfred Tennyson? This is where the fierce, progressive brain heroes of tomorrow are due to be forged – yet it feels as if the history is weighing the whole place down, churning out homogenised intellectual whimsy for the gladdened hordes.
We did see a dog in a jacket, though.
There is another iron in this particular fire – they’re all so fucking healthy. The walk from the town centre takes you down the banks of the river Cam – on which there lie many characterful houseboats, always a glad sight. But consistently in the midground, yet another rowing eight scythes past, the lacquered tones of the coxswain echoing around the flood plain. Bah! What’s wrong with the pub?
Oh yes, the pub. This particular riverside stroll takes you away from the grim Arcadia and out to the village of Fen Ditton, doubtless a treasured spot for a don’s grace-and-favour pad. But at the end of the walk, the Sunday stroller’s rond-point, lies the Plough. And, you know what? It’s fantastically bland. It’s had a late-90s makeover. There’s half a forest’s worth of decking outside. There are vaguely exotic ceramic whatnots on the walls. And the food is classic ‘Premium’ Provincial Pub. What a blessed relief. The booze – most likely Extra Cold lager of some variety – goes down a treat, surrounded by young families, young professionals and such like, and when the roast turns up, although I can’t in all honesty confirm it, I’m sure they said ‘with all the trimmings’.
Thank heavens for mediocrity. It’s so reassuringly normal.
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