November 2026. Cambridge.
The night before Dad’s funeral we met up with the boys in Cambridge. Orchard Park Travelodge is rather nicer than the B & B where we stayed before Mum’s service, particularly if you pay the extra fiver for a posh coffee machine and two Kit Kats (check-in before 3pm would be better).
While James drove Matt down from Sheffield I ventured into the freezing Arbury night to explore the glories of north Cambridge’s post-war housing estates.
For the record, the area seemed a lot neater and tidier than I remember from the ’80s, and I doubt you could pin that on gentrification. Orchard Park itself could do with a proper pub and a bus that runs on time, but it’s otherwise very liveable.
Away from the Tolly’s Folly and Greene King diners on Milton Road, the lone pub in King’s Hedges sprawling estates is a Wells pub last visited a decade ago.
The landlady greets me outside in the smoking area, and I soon realise my presence is of no interest whatsoever in the Golden Hour. Which is fine.
The lone hand pump (Eagle IPA, not great) has gone, replaced by those huge but unmemorable Brew Point fonts. Everyone is drinking Coors.
I don’t know if their stout is called Genesis to sound a bit like you know what, but Bedford beats Dublin on taste, as my lads report back when they make their own trip here to watch the football later that evening.
The back bench seating is comfortable, the soundtrack REM’s “Shiny Happy People“, the banter concerns inverted nipples, the pub grub priced ambitiously.
Then “Together in Electric Dreams” comes on, and it’s 1984 again, and I’m almost convinced to stay for a second pint.
But the boys are on the A14 into Cambridge, and I dash back to Tesco Express to ensure there’s a can of Asahi and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange in their rooms when they’ve parked.
We’re not leaving Orchard Park, which fortunately has a very good South Asian cafe next door.
The Tiffin Truck majors on dosas, but our highlight from a range of specials is the chunky Lamb Dum Biryani, the only downside the breeze from outside every time someone popped in for take-out.
Somehow we got the bill up to £88 with the aid of a can of local craft and Mrs RM’s 2-for-1 cocktails,
after which it appeared none of us could pronounce “Erachi Thengavaruthathu“,
