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NIGEL SCOTT: Punts and pints
"With her results I bet she could have come here you know."
Mrs S and I were deep in conversation as we took an early evening constitutional through the narrow streets of Cambridge.
The subject had turned to our elder daughter Emily and her recent A level results.
It did cross my mind that an 18-year-old girl who hasn't quite learned to flush a loo properly might not be Oxbridge material after all, but her results did suggest she had the potential.
But I'm not sure she would want to try it. I think she thinks she'd end up feeling like a muggle at Harry Potter's Hogwarts.
Our route took us past heavy oak doors and stone archways which gave a glimpse of secret courtyards very similar to the TV world of Inspector Morse except, of course, that Morse belongs to the other place, Oxford.
I'd like to report that my first impression of this city of learning – to which we had travelled for what they call in the hotel industry a "two night superbreak" – was one of culture and studious contemplation but it was not.
My first impression was that every young person of drinking age was clearly out to get him or herself completely wasted.
Clearly Britain's drinking culture knows no boundaries. For every drunken drop-out there was equally a group of students anxious to test their limits of alcoholic tolerance.
In the parks and along the banks of the river Cam, as the punters poled their merry way along, groups of young people sat supping, surrounded by their litter of empty bottles and cans. Still more empties filled the litter bins and the bottom of many a wooden punt.
I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at the volume of imbibing.
Mrs S and I did sup after all in the Eagle pub on Benet Street – famous for being the place where scientists Crick and Watson uncovered the secrets of DNA while slaking their thirst with a pint or two.
Cambridge reminded me of York, with a bit of Leeds and a bit of London thrown in. It boasts some mightily impressive sights, none more so than King's College with its magnificent chapel, left, which is worth a fiver of anyone's money.
And being a student city, you can find value if you look hard enough.
On a balmy bank holiday Monday evening, Mrs S and I had gone in search of an evening meal.
There were plenty of chain restaurants to choose from but we wanted something more memorable.
And we found it due to a piece of inspiration on Mrs S's part.
"Mill Lane," she said, spotting a street sign in a quiet sector of the city away from the main thoroughfares. "I was born in Mill Lane, There'll be something down there. It will be destiny."
And she was right. We found a tiny noodle bar called Dojo where a group of four sweated over steaming woks. It wasn't the best looking place but it was clean and cheerful and the food was magnificent. Such was my enthusiasm that a decent proportion of sauce ended up over my shirt.
With a bottle of Tiger beer for Mrs S and a fruit juice for me, the designated driver, the bill came to just 23 quid. At last it dawned on me that there are some things for which we should be thankful for the influence and the spending power – or lack of it - of students.
Long and winding roads...
BEWARE the unprepared driver who seeks to navigate his or her way through the lost wilderness of Kirklees.
You'd think, wouldn't you, that a gentle drive from the outskirts of Wakefield to the outskirts of Huddersfield would be a doddle.
Far from it: especially, as Mrs S will testify, when darkness falls. Had we not been aided by satnav I doubt we'd have made it back to Normanton Towers from Summer Wine.
Last Saturday night brought a rare gathering of the Derby side of my family – the descendants of the Foulds's (my grandma and granddad who both passed away some time ago).
Their legacy was three daughters and so the Foulds line ended to be superseded by the tribes of Scott, Hudson and Limbert.
My auntie Pat and uncle George – heads of the Hudson clan – were celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary in Golcar, which as the crow flies from Wakefield is not a million miles away.
But the crow has an advantage. It doesn't have to deal with the up hill, down dale, narrow twisting roads which are an absolute nightmare for any motorist, especially as in that part of Yorkshire every yellow stone building and corner shop looks the same.
In the dark, it's a million times worse.
Just to complicate things further our route back to Wakefield had to include a detour to Holmfirth to make sure our daughter's boyfriend Joe got home safely.
Up on top of the hills, with virtually no street lighting, it felt like we were flying rather than in a car.
But it had been good to see so many family members who we see so rarely, not being a particularly close lot.
And I enjoyed seeing the reaction of my own kids, especially my youngest Eleanor, when I pointed out members of our family who she had never seen before.
So happy anniversary George and Pat and thanks for the opportunity to play catch up with the family.
Why we CAN handle the truth over a Libya deal
APPARENTLY the Government thinks that by publishing a few letters we're all going to decide that it has done the decent thing over the release of the Libyan bomber Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi.
We are supposed to think that just because some paperwork produced days and weeks after the event suggests that there is no underlying agenda of Government interference actually means there is no underlying agenda.
Come on. If a deal has been done in secret – which I personally am convinced is the case – they are hardly going to write all the details down so someone can leak them out later.
The trouble with politics is that much of this murky world in which we live operates on a level of "need to know".
Those we elect, many of whom have this year above all proved themselves to be unworthy of the high offices into which we propel them, pick and choose what to tell us.
Decisions are taken on our behalf, supposedly for our common good, and then kept secret from us presumably on the basis that the real power holders, the civil servants, believe that the truth would be too much for us to handle.
Why not let us have the truth? Why not trust us to make decisions based on the full facts rather than the many half-truths (and sometimes downright lies) that are peddled our way?
Surely democracy deserves honesty. If not, we are little better off than the desperate voters of Afghanistan for whom our brave young soldiers' ultimate sacrifice is proving so pointless.
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Sunday 12 February 2012
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