Another crisp October day, another sentimental journey to Cambridge on the train.

Perhaps I’ll visit ALL the Cambridge pubs while I’m visiting Mum and Dad, but probably I won’t. I’m bored of Cambridge already.

But I’m intrigued to know what statue they’re about to unveil at the station;

6/4 it’s Baa Baa Toure, 3,000/1 it’s Alfie the Alpaca.

I quite like popping in to town without any idea what I’m doing, but I like to visit the Fitzwilliam Museum annually to complain about it.

The walk from the station takes you past the spot where I famously failed a driving test a fourth (4th) time in 1998, ignoring a “No Entry” on Panton Street. I thought there’d be a blue plaque there marking the event, but no. At least the Alma survives.

A neat backstreet pub, Guide regular when Ridleys owned it, I hadn’t been in this century. It’s almost unchanged since then, and despite being open plan the drinking areas are nicely distinct.

The fish bowl had gone, and in it’s place are photos of French rugby players.

Rugby. French rugby. Scary stuff. And a bizarre soundtrack, too. I was only the second person to Shazam this Andy Bull track.

Two Old Boys (OK, my age) were having a boozy lunch session, enjoying an increasing rare all day opener.

From a choice of exotica like Proper Job, Nene Valley and Abbot, I chose Greene King IPA (obvs). Cool and easy drinking (NBSS 3+), but hardly worth £4.50.

The Fitzwilliam is free; they get their mony from the lattes and scones, which is fair enough.

A gorgeous building,

filled with Japanese tourists, the most cultured of all visitors to Cambridge.

Here you see the exquisite “The child BRAPA opens the Good Beer Guide and finds himself back at 48%“.

There’s just not enough buttons to press, and they haven’t got a 3D jigsaw of that priceless Chinese vase that bloke smashed, so I reckon the building is the star.

The city feels busy enough,

and is warming up for the Autumn season of hardcore indie.

Talking of hardcore indie, I couldn’t resist a proper pub in the street housing the Eagle;

In truth, I only came in here so you can say “HOW much !”, but the Almost Famous was hazy perfection at a tenner a pint.


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