The Punt, the Porter, and the Post-grad

It has been the warmest English summer in 20 years. The old-timers seem perplexed by it all: the clear days and starry nights when you can roam outdoors unencumbered by a jacket. They wax nostalgic about summers when the sun never emerges from behind clouds, and when constant rains nourish the gardens but keep you penned inside with a book and a pint of ale. They can tolerate days like that, and even seem satisfied when their jaundiced expectations are fulfilled. But this, the incredible beauty of weeks and weeks of perfect English days, is almost too much to handle for the old men and women who expect the water to start falling at any moment, who look up and scan the boundless horizon for the low, shady clouds that this year refuse to appear.

Winter’s darkness couldn’t be further away. The excitement and vitality of May, June, July, August, and September has come in all forms.

For the first time in more than three decades, the national election resulted in a hung parliament, where no single party won a majority of seats. The Conservatives and Liberal Democrats formed an unlikely alliance to share power, and David Cameron moved into the Prime Minister’s office at Number 10, Downing St.

The World Cup stirred passionate hopes and bitter skepticism for England supporters; the dream ended in embarrassment this year with a 4-1 loss to Germany.

Music festivals, street-side ice cream vendors, Pimms on the river, long lovely Saturdays turning to sweet, brief summer nights.

Over the next few weeks I want to share a few vignettes with you. I want to show you how my affection for this place and the people in it has blossomed; how Cambridge has intractably inserted itself into my brain and being. And then, after I’m through falling in love with this city again through the writing, I’ll tell you why I must leave.

First up: The Punt, the Porter, and the Post-grad.

………

The day, like so many before and after it, was intoxicating. 75 and sunny and I could almost smell the freshly cut grass wafting through the library window and filling me with restlessness. I took frequent walks in between writing paragraphs for my thesis. I find that I work better that way, with a short burst of a couple hundred words followed by a stroll.

On Tuesdays, the Cow offers two pizzas for the price of one, but you can’t get an odd number. Because of this, HY, Aurelie, Gareth, Martin, and I spent an inordinate time trying to decide the how to split an even number of pizzas between five people, with negotiations finally resulting in three pizzas between Gareth and I, and one each for the others.

While waiting for our orders we chatted with Bridget, a fellow King’s grad who had just submitted her PhD dissertation and was now taking a few well-deserved weeks of complete inactivity. The pizzas came; I’d gotten duck, and Gareth and I were splitting a pepper/pepperoni masterpiece. We walked to the river; the smell rising from the cracks in the cardboard boxes and pushing us faster than our normal pace. We settled in Bodleys court, which overlooks the river, and listened as punting guides made up information about Cambridge for the credulous tourists. The favorite piece I’d heard from a guide was how Trinity College’s Wren library was built from the top down, since it was constructed before Newton invented gravity….

In the middle of our lovely meal my phone rang, and a porter was asking to talk with Thornton Thompson. In retrospect, I should have said that Thornton wasn’t here at the moment but I’d be happy to relay any message you might have for him, but alas.

“Terribly sorry to bother you mate, but one of the punts has been stolen, and we’re told you’re the man to be notified about it”

Backtrack….

After my first experience punting and the subsequent development of my river addiction, I’d discovered that the cost of 4 quid per hour adds up; especially when you take frequent six-hour trips to Grantchester. I then joined the punt committee because committee members can take them out for free as often as they want. It sounded like a sweet gig, and so far I’d had only minor responsibilities. When the summer came, the head and other committee members left for holiday, and I remained as the de facto leader, the point man for all things punt-related.

Fast forward….

“Shit, are you serious?”
“Yeah, some divvy left it unattended in Mill Pond, and it was gone when they got out of the pub”
“The pub?”
“Uh-huh”
“Alright, thanks for letting me know.”
“No worries mate. Good luck”

We spent the next five hours looking for that damn punt. At the start, I wasn’t too worried; the accessible part of the river isn’t that long. When these things had happened in years past, it was usually some kids that took it for a couple hundred yards of joyride, and then the joy wore off and it is abandoned fairly close by. Gareth and Martin generously offered to help me look, and as we left the lonely third pizza in the caring arms of HY and Aurelie, I felt confident we’d be back before it lost its steaming warm goodness…

We cycled up the river path towards Grantchester, and cut through nettle fields that stung my ankles and tugged at the spokes of my bike. We had to lift ourselves over innumerable gates that were meant to prevent bikers from taking that path. We rode for two miles up to the quaint little village, past the point where any punt thief could have made it in the brief time since it had disappeared.

“They must’ve taken it the other way down to Jesus Green,” I said.
“Ok let’s go check it out,” Gareth mounted and swerved to avoid a cow pie.
“Thanks guys, but you don’t need to come with me if you don’t want to”
“No worries, this is the most excitement Cambridge has had for a couple hundred years”

We rode back to King’s, where the girls waited for news.

“Anything?”
“Nothing”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we’re going to check the other way”
“Ok, good luck”

The north side of the river cuts through the colleges and is inaccessible to bike, so we took another punt and went off in hot pursuit, analyzing the water for clues and interrogating the ducks that ventured too close,

“Where’s our punt!!!??”
“Quack”
“Tell me, goddammit!!”
“Quack”
“If I find out you’re withholding information…..”
“Quack”

Daylight waned. We’d reached the far end of the river, where the lock prevents boats from going further. One of the punt companies has several dozen boats moored up there, so we shone our phone lights to see if we could distinguish our missing king (the punt is called “Edward VIII”) from among the plebs.

There was nothing. I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t think there was any way that somebody could have gotten it out of the river. These things are heavy, and a crime like this would require at least six people, a truck, and some big brass balls to steal a punt in broad daylight. It just didn’t seem likely that the spontaneous thief would have these things lying in wait.

It was dark then, but we checked all the little rivulets, dead ends, and enclosed ponds we could get in to. My last hope faded when we went down to Darwin college, the last place it could have possibly been, and found it empty.

I thanked my deputies, and went to the porter’s lodge to get some more information. The idiot who left Eddy 8 unattended was going to have some serious explaining to do….

“It was Carl.”
I couldn’t believe it, “Carl Hodson!?? The head porter??”
“Yeah mate, he took it out with some buddies from Oxford”

Unbelievable. Carl Hodson, the boss of the porters, in charge of so much stuff that King’s would probably fall over if he left, the guy who chastises students for leaving a gate unlocked or walking on the grass or partying too loudly, had really really really fucked up.

……

The days went by and we still couldn’t find it. That weekend I kayaked up to and past Grantchester, in the unlikely event that it had gone that far. Still nothing.

We had insurance on all the punts, but because Edward VIII had been left unlocked and unattended, I didn’t see how we were going to get the insurance company to cough up any money at all. Liz got the unpleasant task of getting Carl to fill out the details for the insurance forms, but I had no hope we’d ever see the 4000 pounds that it was worth.

…..

16 days later. By then, I’d long since lost any hope it would ever be found. It was either at the bottom of some river, in somebody’s garage, or the newest member of an Oxford punting company. My phone rang at noon while I was working from home.

“Hello?”
“Hiya this is the Porter’s lodge, could I please speak with Thornton Thompson”

I was so sorely tempted…. but alas, “This is he, what’s up?”
“Oh hiya Thornton. The punt’s been found.”

Backtrack….

16 days ago, pizza at the Cow, interrupted by a phone call, 5 hours looking for a stolen punt, no trace whatsoever, finding out it was Carl’s fault.

Fastforward…

“Shit, are you serious?”
“Yeah mate, it’s back at Mill Pond”
“Sorry, what?”
“It’s at Mill Pond.”
“The same place it was stolen?”
“Uh-huh”
“Okay, thanks”

No way, I thought. somebody is mistaken. the porters are playing a joke on me. no way. Liz and I got a pole and walked down Silver Street, past the Anchor, and into the field adjacent to Mill Pond. In the dirty, algae-covered, duck-crawling pond, a lone punt floated by the bank. The fore and aft wood paneling sparkled with the bright purple of King’s College. Emblazoned on the sides was its call name: “Edward VIII” I could barely believe my eyes. We walked over and knelt down to check him out. There was some minor cosmetic damage, a bit of water in bottom, and a few leaves stuck to the side, but overall Eddy 8 was unharmed. The cushions were even still there. A chain tied the prow to a tree stump on the bank, and on the other end, a pale blue string anchored the rear to a piece of bank wood.

Somebody had stolen a punt while Carl Hodson and his friends were drinking at the pub, and hid it in some secret river cove. Let me re-emphasize, we checked EVERYWHERE. After 16 days, the generous thief decided to return the king, unransomed and unharmed, to the exact same spot from which he’d been taken.

Liz asked me if I wanted to punt him back home. I told her yes absolutely I did. We crossed under King’s bridge and veered left. I parallel parked Eddy 8 between his cousin Henry VII and his lover Mrs. Simpson. As we got out and wrapped the chains tightly around the metal rings on the bank, I looked up to see a black and green duck bobbing in front of the prodigal punt, staring right into my eyes.

And I swear to God it winked at me.

(Photo ruthlessly stolen from Gareth Nellis. Gareth is starting his PhD at Yale, and you can read his Anglo-impressions of the American experience at http://garethacrossstates.blogspot.com/)