Sorry, Rupert, No classic poetry is safe when I need a blog title.
Having reported from the area in Lincolnshire where national treasure Jeffrey Archer was incarcerated in 2001, here’s his current, rather more attractive abode. That’s Rupert Brooke in the courtyard (see here).
All proper Cambridgians make the walk out from Newnham to Grantchester at least once a year, treating it as the sort of adventure Lancastrians have when they walk from Preston to the Trough of Bowland.
If you needed any evidence as to why Pink Floyd are so good, remember they wrote a song about Grantchester Meadows that made it sound menacing.
Most undergrads trudge out here for scones (pronounced scones) on Sunday; I did it to see what the Blue Ball is up to under new ownership.
In years past this most traditional of Cambridge village pubs would have been packing up at 10 to 3. I was pleased but surprised Paul Bailey managed to get fed and watered last year (charming report here).
But the Blue Ball bucks the trend by increasing its weekday opening hours, and seems to have the local trade in as a reward for its enterprise.
It feels unchanged, which is just as well since it’s on the CAMRA Pub Heritage list. Perhaps a bit more food trade in one room, but that still feels low-key.
Pleasingly, the beer range is also untouched. You’ll have to pop down the road for your modern stuff like Oakham or meet your craving for GK IPA.
A calming atmosphere pervades, the soundtrack of mellow 1940s big band music matching the decade most of the locals in here were born.
The cool, foamy Adnams was certainly Beer Guide standard, if not quite as good as Paul’s pint a year ago. The Blue Ball would be in the GBG in any branch north of Manchester.
But what about the hand cleansing products in the Gents ?, I hear you ask.