October 2026. Cambridge.
I’d popped down to see Dad in Cambridge on Sunday, and felt sufficiently concerned to stay the night in Orchard Park‘s Travelodge, visible from the A14 if not space.
Having not eaten all day I was grateful for the PLUS room with its Lavazza machines (3 double espressos please) and a couple of Kit Kats.
Orchard Park is the 21st century housing development on agricultural land between Histon (of Leeds giantkilling fame) and the working class suburbs of north Cambridge.
Two budget hotels draw the business travellers and tourists with cars, who can then use the Guided Bus to whizz from Town to Gown. Or they could, if the guided bus turned up.
So I walked the 20 minutes through Arbury and Kings Hedges, past the Ship and the once great Carlton, the only (keg) survivors in a vast areas where Mum once delivered fruit and veg to the shop next to the Snowcat. Dad had the easier gig, delivering to Mill Road.
A chap half my age reckons he can overtake me but he never does, puffing and panting as I reach the Carpenters Arms on Victoria Road, the long stretch from the colleges to Mitcham Corner gyratory system.
It gets my vote as it’s a) the first cask pub I reach, b) a sister venue to the Salisbury of CAMRA investments fame, c) across the road from the Golden Dragon and my tea.
Wells Pubs are of a type, aren’t they ?
All comics and Carpenters and distressed effects.
There’s just the one hand pump, virtually hidden behind a pile of Modelo beer mats and a tube of straws. It’s almost like they don’t care about cask anymore, and of course why should they when volumes have halved in a decade.
The sad thing is that, perversely, the Carpenters is really busy on Sunday evening, with only U2’s “Angel of Harlem” and Sunderland v Leeds playing out a nil-nil draw for entertainment. It’s not all students, either; blokes in their 40s debate the merits of sharing children’s portions of tater tots.
But I seem to be the only taker for Double Star, which is not a name the young or old punter will recognise.
It’s awful. I should have taken it back, but is it my job ?
Instead, I admire the decor,
and have the keg stout while the Golden Dragon completes the Crispy Beef and Singapore Rice,
and although Genesis is not a Revelation, it’s good enough.
Some old Wells memories for Stafford Paul,
and a bag of goodness recommended to me by ChatGPT, high on taste, low on quantity and value.
Good job I ate though, as you’ll know already that the day was about to take a turn for the worse.
