Wilfred De'ath

The pub nearest to where I live in Cambridge, The Grapes, has no atmosphere at all unless you enjoy playing pool. I have all the signs of a misspent youth except, funnily enough, that. So I don’t go in there very often.

The next nearest pub, The Isaac Newton, has no atmosphere either unless you enjoy watching soccer. On match days they show the football on eight enormous screens and the pub fills up with hysterical screaming fans. It occurs to me that it might be more restful at the ground itself.

My actual ‘local’ is The Carpenter’s Arms. Twenty years ago, when I last lived in Cambridge, it was always full of noisy, disgusting drunks but it has gone upmarket now and serves pizza to its lower-middle-class customers. I do not understand the national obsession with pizza: it is a chewy, fattening food which may account – in part – for the current obesity crisis.

The Castle on Castle Hill likes to boast of its ‘atmosphere’ but in fact has little or none. The last time I visited, in the summer, I sat in the garden and a little mole came to join me. He looked as fed up as I felt and I don’t blame him.

The Architect, just across the road, has no atmosphere either. A bit further down the hill towards town is The Punter’s Arms, where I go once a week, usually on a Saturday. It is a ‘student’ pub where you can hear the braying of rich minor public schoolboys discussing their rowing exploits. Girls, too, who say ‘Yah’ a lot as they talk about their essay crises.

I walk down Chesterton Road towards the Arundel House Hotel before I remember I am banned from there for complaining about the service. So it’s to be The Waterman’s Arms where the rude, heavily tattooed barman asks: ‘What do you want, mate?’ To which I reply: ‘I want you not to call me mate, for a start. You may call me Sir or nothing.’ ‘Then it will have to be nothing’, he says.

I leave there promptly and walk along the river to The Old Spring, probably the best pub in Cambridge. It is owned by a friend of mine, Steve Murphy, who also has The Burleigh Arms on the Newmarket Road. In both pubs, the ales and food are excellent but expensive.

I end my ‘crawl’ in The Burleigh, still on my feet (just about) after ten pints but a bit wobbly. I wonder whether to call a taxi but decide that my new stout walking stick (a Christmas present to myself: £65) will see me home.

I’m not sure what I mean by ‘atmosphere’ but I shall know it when I find it. A nice log fire and some attractive barmaids would help. The Old Spring boasts both of these but nowhere else, alas.