An
Incomer's Guide to Ely
by Alistair Kitching
Ten years ago - not exactly
clutching a cardboard suitcase and evacuee papers, but you get the gist - I
moved to Cambridge from the frozen North to take up a civil service post in
a place I'd hardly even been aware of, let alone visited. As the train rattled,
bumped and lurched across the fens (and, yes, I still think they're too flat)
I took in my first sight of Ely Cathedral and something inside me lit up. Faintly,
mind, but lit up nevertheless. Approach it from Peterborough by train and I
defy anyone not to be impressed (or so I told myself). It didn't stop me continuing
my rattling, bumping and lurching onward to Cambridge, however.
Ten years later and I've made
good on the promise of that initial sighting and finally decided that it's time
I moved to Ely. I've lived here for two months now and it strikes me - probably
naively - that the city's set for expansion. This is going to mean, if I'm right,
a lot of incomers like me. And what do new people need but a guide to the place
... and this is my attempt at such. Hopefully this is going to be a nice fresh
perspective, I've very little to go on, but there may be someone out there who'll
find it a useful alternative to any insider's approach. Perhaps. Maybe. oh I
don't know, but here it is.
Where to start ..?
The Cathedral
Well, there's really only one place to start, isn't there? There are so many
places around the world where guidebooks bang on endlessly about how such-and-such
a site dominates the landscape, 
blah blah blah. Yeah, we've heard it already. Well, the Cathedral
at Ely dominates the landscape. I mean it does, it truly does. From a distance
(breasting the rise at Stretham travelling north, for instance) it's the only
thing on the horizon you notice and it just looks so damn beautiful. Like Uluru
replanted to Cambridgeshire. There's no way that you can spend an average day
in the place (that is, not whacked out your normal orbit on something synthetic
and illegal) without having to deal in some way with The Cathedral Church of
the Holy and Undivided Trinity of Ely (that's it's proper dedication, I know
because I checked), so it's a good thing that it's lofty position in the pantheon
of all that is aesthetic is assured, because if it looked like a large dog poo
we'd all be in trouble.
Now, obviously, I've been in
- I mean, you do, don't you? first flush of enthusiasm and all that - and was
a tad concerned that there's an entry fee (in a church, tut tut tut) of the
not-much-change-out-of-a-fiver territory, but someone has since told me that
if I can prove I'm an Ely resident I can get some sort of permit, which is nice.
Having spent my formative years in Lincoln and Canterbury I'm keen to have my
regular gothic fix and having to cough up the readies is something I want to
do at my convenience. I'll be back. If you are a new visitor be sure to check
out the octagon, which is the inside of the Lantern tower, the very thing that
sets Ely apart from all other great churches. It's breathtaking, and I ain't
gonna do it the injustice of describing it here: go view it for yourself.
There are going to be eternal
interminable debates about which view of the Cathedral is the definitive one.
For me, and I only found this out this week, it has to be from the Stuntney
bypass ... cathedrals are supposed to drag you in, persuading you by their beauty
and magnificence that you want to be there. The Stuntney view does just that.
But day to day I'm happy with the way it peers through my bedroom window, just
a quarter of a mile away: if I knew the architect's address I'd send him a thank
you letter.
An Incomer's Guide to
Ely
Part 2 - Now we're here, what
do we do?
In the short time that I've been aware of Lee's ground-breaking site, one thing
about the message board has worried me. No, I'm not particularly bothered about
the war of words beteween one set of school kids and another - though we may
have to come back to this at a later date - but the assertion, and in some sense
the tacit agreement, that Ely is boring. I may very well be the wrong
person to tackle this thorny subject: I'm not exactly at the too-old-to-Rock-n-Roll-too-young-to-die
crossroads yet, but I can see it from here. So we could quite easily get in
to a debate about what a 34 year old knows about having a good time ... or perhaps
not.
Ely's a bit little, infact it's
remarkably wee in many respects, well, OK then, in all respects. I've lived
in London and had an Alladin's Cave of entertainment choice on my doorstep before
now, so comparisons aren't really going to do us any favours. If you want London,
go to bloody London (or Manchester or Liverpool or Newcastle): that's what the
train station is there for. Even before I got here I knew that if I wanted to
go on a large one I wouldn't necessarily find it in the Tinker ... No, the joy
of our city is that it's not Ibiza. I'll try and explain this, hang on a sec.
Bear with me.
Try this apocryphal tale -
a possible first night out in Ely:
"I live near the Tinker so we start in there. The loudest noise is the sound
of our jaws hitting the lino. Bugger me, this is a dull place. We check out
the vid jukebox and the Greene King. Not too bad, but it's as quiet as the grave
of someone who's very quiet on National Be Quiet day, so we leave after one
drink. Exit and turn left into town. Past the traffic lights outside the cop
shop and suddenly we have a dilemma. Left into the Lamb, right into the King's
Arms or straight on to the Minster? Well, nice to have the choice, I suppose;
let's try all three. We go in to the King's Arms and it's a toss up as to whether
or not this is as dull as the pub we've just left. Visions of moving house again
in a very short time creep into the back of my mind. They seem to have not heard
of orange juice, so one of the group passes up her usual vodka and we all sit
supping pints. Despite footy on the telly (or because of even, as it's Manchester
United) the place is empty. There are glances being cast in my direction, I
can feel it. Why have we been brought here, they imply, what devilish trick
are you playing on our sophisticated Cambridge minds? I'm thinking fast ...
"We change tack, go back where we came from and duck into the Fenman, a bar
attached to the Lamb Hotel. Obviously I'm losing my touch as this has replaced
'dull' with 'ever-so slightly threatening'. There's a solid strata of Silk Cut
smoke hanging across the place and some lary blokes standing moodily in the
corner. We down the pints and get out. It's dark now and I decide that I can
claw back some credibility by ignoring the doubtless manifold joys of the Minster
and taking my pals past the Cathedral and then right, past the cannon, on to
Silver Street. The octagon tower wins them over a little and I notice, rather
hearteningly, that there are several double-takes being thrown back at the beautiful
pale white shape that floats above us. We start to run a little as it's raining
and dive into the Prince Albert. Empty. I mean empty ... but delight
is not too far away as the Greene King in here is simply the best we've ever
tasted (by which I mean the OED definition of 'ever' - it's gorgeous) and we
all try the Abbot & Mild variations. Fabulous stuff.
"Eventually we run out of permutations and, a little blearily, head off for
the Fountain. It's a bit livelier and we've now moved slightly further East
and West 'cos we're in Adnams and Charles Wells territory. Inhibitions are beginning
to peter out and as the evening wears on we're warming to the genteel pace.
Or maybe we're slowing down, I can't quite decide. The Gallery looks great from
here (at the moment, I'm in that pleasant enough frame of mind where I'm seeing
certain viewpoints for the first, surprising, time). The Cutter awaits, though,
and anyway, it's nearer the station, so down the hill we trot.
"Much more what we wanted at the start really, lively and noisy and full. The
beers are actually pretty good for what appears to be a younger and brasher
clientele. There are alternative pleasures to be had here I'm sure, certainly
different to the ones we've experienced thus far on our inaugral journey of
discoverey, it's just a question of looking."
And look I probably shall, for
there's plenty of stuff around other than that described above. I haven't been
to Dean's yet (someone told me it's "can't move" in there on a Friday) or the
Royal Standard or the High Flyer. But I shall. I don't know if there's anything
else, but the station will take me where I want to go if I run out of things
to see and do.
Boring? Cut your cloth
according, that's what I say. Don't come to Ely expecting Hooj tunes or the
Ministry to blow you apart, because that ain't going to happen, but more modest
expectations will be met, I promise. Hell, I even pop into the Tinker for a
Sunday pint myself these days ...
Part 3 - Saturdays
The visitor or new resident may not fully accept your correspondent's previous
attempt, above, Part 2, at advertising Ely's tub-thumping night scene. After
all, it's a brave man who takes on a small cathedral city and expects to stumble
over a seedy underbelly of drink, drugs and dancing girls. Either that or it's
a man with zero imagination. Whichever, an Easter sun fading fast behind yon
big church ain't exactly going to get folk bussing in from the Smoke for an
evening to see what all the fuss is about, is it?
But, dammit, there's something
beginning to happen here. New houses leaping up all over the shop, new shops
leaping up all over the square and soon "pocket parks". Whatever they are. It's
changing, I tell ya, and I got here just in time to watch it. But why? Why is
it that everyone I've spoken to recently who's after a new house (OK, three
people) wants to come to our little corner of the world?
I crack a tinny and muse on it.
What was it two months ago that drew me away from St Ives (Sodom) and Cambridge
(Gomorrah)? I sit here soaking up the rays of another "hottest since records
began" kind of day and I start to wonder just what it is that helps people latch
on to this city. For starters, and a bit obvious I expect, it's easy to think
that it's the prettiness of the place, especially when the sun's warming you
up like now and the only hassle you've got is whether you can fit another beer
in before lunchtime, and, if you reckon you can manage that, whether or not
you can be faffed walking to the fridge or not anyway. Or it could be that it
reminds you of all you'd like to believe is still best about living here at
the end of this particular century (if you squint a little or look away at the
cathedral when you walk past a manky bit). Or perhaps you just want to live
in Cambridge but can't afford it. Or perhaps you've never thought about it?
Know what I think? Me, I think
it's none of these things. I think it's Saturdays. When I first came to Ely
on a proper visit it was a Saturday (this has got to be the most likely day,
after all) and suddenly everything clicked into place. Don't agree? OK, go through
it:
*
it's busy; hell, the place is usually heaving at the weekends. What's more you'll
have difficulty telling who's who - not all the tourists have TOURIST
cards pinned to their backs you know. So you (the ingenue in our throbbing metropolis)
think, "wow, 's happening here, innit?" Or something perhaps a little less 'street'
*
it's welcoming; when there's such an overpoweringly high proportion of visitors,
the "we don't hold wi' strangers in these parts" attitude tends to be well hidden
*
the markets are on; now here's a thing, Ely markets. Personally I can't say
I get this, but what is it with this place and markets? Main market in the,
er, market square. Craft market in the Maltings (to the newbie, this is the
big let's-hope-it's-a-pub building down by the river) and the Antiques market,
also near the river - though I'm prepared to believe it if someone tells me
this is open all week. Markets, markets everywhere. Not a big market buff myself
(one raspberry-scented smooth wooden mushroom is much the same as another to
me) but the main one does sell a few nice things (huge bottles of Olive Oil
for virtually nothing for starters). Still, all adds to the ambience I guess
*
you're up for a lunchtime drink, and the fuzziness this engenders always makes
you think, "my, but this is nice"
Or is that just me?
No, the thing is that Ely is
a place for the casual visitor and it gets it's hooks into you when you treat
it like that. Jeez, just take a blast through the Guestbook on this very site
and you'll see it's full of people wanting to return again and again. And yet
it's bound to work this way because it is a lovely place to visit. Everything
seems to be going on, you can capture the whole place in a blink and it's most
likely going to be a nice day because, be honest, all the visitors come in the
Summer. Oh, all right, so it's a small point but worth making for those people
who don't know the place too well.
Try turning up on a wet Tuesday
evening in January and see how well you get on with it. I'd be able to hear
you running for the train from here.
Part 4 - what do you mean
it's an island?
I thought I'd venture a little
further afield this week and take in something other than the cathedral and
the pubs. Oh alright, so perhaps the pubs might feature later on, but give me
a chance. I don't like to get too far away from what I know best, but I'll give
it a try. Like the spotty little oik in the Nat West adverts used to say, "It's
not all work work work, y'know". Actually, if you go into my local Nat West
branch it's not at all work work work... but I digress. Wildly. Onward...
Ely's position on antique maps
(you know the sort of thing, "Thompson's mappe of the Dutch East Indies, 1695"
where stereotyped sea-monsters are interspersed with little drawings of sailing
ships being puffed along by anthropomorphised clouds) is grand and assured.
It's standing as the centre of the Diocese meant that graphical representations
of the town supposed it to be artificially larger than somewhere like, say,
Birmingham. Whether or not we should still do this is another question entirely.
However, in all these old documents, two things stand out. One, there's always
water surrounding the place and two, it's uniformly referred to as the "Isle
of Ely". Now, this naming protocol still happens in some places, but not nearly
as much as it used to, but the new visitor should really be warned that if Mother
nature had her way Ely would indeed be an island surrounded by lakes and swamps.
Point? Well, the point is that although we don't have Ely-next-the-Sea n'more,
or P+O ferries steaming up the Ouse, there is a healthy marina feel if you want
to go out and have a look for it.
I took myself a wander down to the river front at the weekend.
Before reading on, pop back to the 'modest pleasures' concept of Part 2, because
I'm not about to describe Mississippi paddle steamers shipping blackjack gamblers
down to New Orleans. This is Ely fer chrissakes! No, what you get is pretty
delightful in it's own way, but it ain't Hedonism II.
Having unfairly dissed the market
slant in Part 3 I should point out that the big barn thing (is it an old mill?
I don't know) that is Waterside Antiques can
hold some proper little treasures. Like all antique places it's the retail equivalent
of your dad's garage, and everything is just thrown together like - and I hesitate
to use the word in such an august institution - so much jumble. But search about,
and there's more nooks and crannies hidden away here than you realise, and you'll
find something that catches your eye.
Exit into the sunshine and don't
trip up on the muscovy ducks which wander aimlessly everywhere, doing a much
better job of slowing the cars than any Ely District Council traffic-calming
facility. The marina is impressively spacious and clearly a big stopover for
the holiday makers, using the river as their base. This makes the area a rare
old hive of activity once the sun pops out and it's like having two city centres.
Almost. Sort of. Kind of thing.
Is it worth saying that the views
of the cathedral from here are fan... oh, alright. Moving swiftly on: as you
move along the water's edge (those of ou who already know the are will probably
realise what I'm heading for) you'll pass the Maltings, and impressive old,
er, maltings which has now managed to acquire a venerable multi-faceted status.
For multi-faceted read what's-it-for? I've been to a wedding reception, the
cinema and a craft fair in it before now. A mixed bag, but weekends definitely
appear to be craft fair day. Time for an unfairly wide berth.
And
then The Cutter. Yes, the pub. OK, so the The Cutter has figured here before,
but I like it in there, it's genuinely schizo (proper, acceptable division between
two different bars), has Courage on draft and the sarnies are a revelation.
Not being Egon Ronay, that's your lot viz food and drink descriptions, but I'll
just repeat that I like it in there and I'm sure that after a tough hard slog
up the Ouse in your 3mph barge, disembarking right outside and having a beer
in the sunshine you'll have to agree. Smart.
Something in the back of my mind
tells me that ECDC are planning what they euphemistically call 'improvements'
to this area. Oh, good. Always worth having a stab at bettering perfection.
Part 5 - The Beautiful Game
Making your way in the world
today
Takes everything you've got
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot
So sang a young Woody Harrelson
at the start of each episode of 'Cheers'. Now, that young man has moved on and
made a place for himself amongst Hollywood's luminaries, and we're left with
nothing but the memories of what might have been. How can we cope when the great
and the good desert us in this way? It's tough, obviously, to make a mark on
the world when the only thing that greets and embraces you is the familiar stench
of disappointment.
With that thought in mind I decided
last week to ignore the warnings of Johnny Swift's Robins Round Up and see what
football out here in the East Anglian hinterland had to offer. The answer, perhaps
surprisingly, was a hell of a lot.
Ely have finally stopped struggling
at the bottom of the Jewson Premier League. Stopped, because, like a baby seal
on the ice flow, their unequal fight for survival has been terminated by all
the clubs above them: for this is a cruel business and Ely are one of the season's
first victims. When I visited they had a tiny sliver of hope left as they faced
up to the towering might that is Gorleston. I can hear the sharp intakes of
breath from here .. Gorleston, I know. Terrifying. But face up to them they
did.
I made my way across the by-pass
and, taking the Pymoor road, soon turned up at the Rugby Club and Football Ground.
Now, I know what to expect in the Jewson Premier League, and it ain't Old Trafford
or the Nou Camp. Which is just as well, because this wasn't Old Trafford or
the Nou Camp. Bloody good job, too. There's no place in my book for new money
in football, that's how you end up with people asking for Rushden & Diamonds
as if it's a place. No, the modest facilities afforded at ECFC were just fine
thanks, and, if anything, slightly more solubrious than I was expecting. Ample
parking too, since there wasn't a rugger game on.
The main stand (OK, the only stand) houses all the facilities,
including a fair size bar and social club type area. Ely were giving it their
all out on the pitch, huffing and puffing along to a rare win (sadly too late,
as we now know) and we were sat taking seconds and thirds on the 75p burgers
(£3.95 at Old Trafford). Having spent the footy season watching Lincoln's
spineless efforts at staying in Division 2 I know what it feels like to see
your team move paddle-less up the proverbial creek, but there are plenty of
reasons to be happy with visiting Ely City Football Club, and a lack of pretension
is top of that list. Grass roots? They invented that phrase here. The crowd
cheered as the Robins crashed home a goal in the last seconds to give them that
false glimmer that they might stay up, and no-one at that moment would've poured
cold water on the players' enthusiasm. I'll definitely be back next season for
a few games, and I'd recommend anyone else to, too. After all, there's that
lot from Somersham to sort out.
Part 6 - why pamper life’s complexities when the leather runs smooth on
the passenger seat?
Rather cleverly I managed to
prang the motor recently. Thing is, I was inside the garage and parked at the
time, so you can imagine just how difficult it must have been. Obviously I was
quite chuffed with myself and not at all annoyed that nine years' no-claims
was about to disappear down the toilet.
Still, I told myself through gritted teeth, it at least gives
me the opportunity to check out the rail-link that Ely offers to Cambridge,
and which I bang on and on about to my work colleagues (after I've parked up
each morning). About time I put such a marvellous facility to use, though I
had kind of hoped to do it on my terms.
Now, I've travelled by train
a lot in my time: I passed my driving test relatively late and was forever having
to cadge lifts from one station or another, so the prospect of sussing out platforms
and timetables and tickets and all the other related ephemera of rail travel
isn't particularly daunting. Leastways, that's what I thought. The problem is,
of course, that you get out of practice and very quickly realise that the comfy
world of an endearingly crap British Rail has been replaced by the spiky unintelligible
guff of Railtrack and their assorted associated demons of Mischief (or, WAGN,
as I think they are now). "Which way would you like to go to Lower Piddleton,
sir? And do you want to avoid London? Or would you like the cheapest possible
fare? Or the most direct route? Or perhaps sir would prefer to pay several geological
ages in avance, thereby saving tuppence ha'penny should the journey fall either
side of Septuagesima? Only I ain't going to tell sir, in case sir stumbles on
a particularly cheap ticket." That sort of thing.
The train that leaves Ely for
Cambridge of a work day morning is shiny and new and, if you can get one, I'm
sure the seats are very snug. But is there any need for a 14 minute journey
to cost as much as it does? A minor quibble, surely, for a man of means? If
I find one I'll ask him. Oh, OK, so the every-quarter-of-an-hour nature of midweek
trains from Ely is pretty attractive, and at least they're not run by Virgin,
which I gather would be a disaster. No, the train that bounces wildly to Cambridge
(and to Peterborough, March, Kings Lynn, Norwich, Ipswich, Manchester and London)
will do, I guess. It's neither Ely nor Railtrack's fault that the Elders of
Cambridge decided to build the station only marginally nearer to the city centre
than the destinations of the damn trains themselves, but that's one of your
"typically Cambridge" concepts that is quaint to those people it doesn't affect
and hugely bloody annoying to those it does.
But I'm getting ahead of myself
here and running the risk of talking about Cambridge rather than Ely, which
would never do. The thing is, the railway line, for all it's Beeching-esque
throwback associations with our picture postcard past is a vital part of the
make up of our city, for without it we'd all soon be feeling the pressure. No?
Well would you prefer to take the A10 knowing that all the train commuters were
suddenly using it? Do you realise that the last train back to Ely from Cambridge
is after midnight? That's enough time to finish your drink in almost any pub
in the County Capital and still wander to the station. Not that this is selling
point you understand.
Oh, and recently there was a
fatality on the A10 at Little Thetford, which I'm sure wrought more feelings
of inconvenience than concern from the zillions of cars (all carrying just the
one person I'll wager) diverted through the fen road. Did I mention that the
train goes to Liverpool, Nottingham, Edinburgh, Newcastle ....
Oh, alright, I'm sold. Anyone
know if this is the Upper Soapbox train?
Part 7 - Gran Tourismo
Do you know who Heather O'Rourke
is? Well, I feel I have a lot in common with her at the moment. Heather O'Rourke,
should you need telling, was the rather unsettling little girl who appeared
in the early 80s Poltergeist movie series. Two things that she utters in those
films (virtually the only things, if truth be told) are "they're here" and "it's
started again". Too right, love.
Taking a turn into town on Monday
(it was a Bank Holiday, remember) I thought maybe a relaxing wander through
the Gallery and then a pint in The Fountain, which can't really be too much
to ask on one's day off. Least, that's what I thought. But something's happened
to Ely. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it? As huge, double-deckered, black-window'd
Mercedes coaches pulled into the space before Cromwell's House, sporting those
bizarre out-slung rear view mirrors and spilling Europe's finest camera clickers
onto the cathedral green, I stared in dislocated bemusement at the way the city
has suddenly transformed.
"Bloody hell," I said aloud,
"I'm back in Cambridge". It's certainly what it felt like for a moment, as the
mass of people moved along the well-trodden path ...
Tourists buzz backwards and forwards
between the obvious pillars and posts, though at least we don't have to watch
them trying the punts out like they do in Cambridge, or being told lies about
the Mathematical Bridge, or hassled for business, at least Ely hasn't disappeared
down that route just yet, thank God. Even so, it's an inescapable fact about
life in this city and on Monday I saw it from my new 'native' (not indigenous,
not just yet) perspective, which was sobering, until I finally worked my way
to the pub.
Live in Ely, work in Cambridge,
drive between the two on the A10: what do I do to relax you might think, a spot
of air traffic control? I'm sure if I put a tracking device on some of these
people I'd find them within 100 yards of me at any given moment. It's a churlish
attitude and, oh, I shouldn't be too surprised I suppose. I mean, take a look
back at what I've written about this place. It's pretty clear I'm taken with
it and we should expect that everyone else will want a piece of it too. Including
the tourists, God bless 'em, who bring a good chunk of cash in (into the cathedral,
the Minster and that bloke who's got the ice-cream van permanently parked at
the corner of Church Lane and Palace Green, by the looks of things). What genuinely
only really gets to me is the brevity with which we're treated by each fresh
onslaught of visitors: barely enough land gained to secure a beach-head, and
then they're back on the coach to take a 5 minute stroll round Peckover House
or Wicken Fen or take a chauffered punt round and round the Mill Pond until
they're dizzy. What does that imply? It can't mean that they've effectively
'done' us, can it?
"Gee, well, we did Ely, Cambridge,
Peter-burrow, Newmarket, Saffron Walden and Kings Lynn. Then in the afternoon..."
Jarvis Cocker said that everybody
hates a tourist, which I can't really agree with, since they are a bit of a
lifeline to a region like ours, but do we have to suffer in quite this way?
Ely's manifold pleasures treated like the week's latest novelty dance record,
to be used up and thrown away in a soundbite blast of yer typical British culture
(innit)? As a new resident (but a bit of an old git, it would appear) and a
tourist-turned-taxpayer I think I'm uniquely placed to say something unexpected
to the hoards this Summer: stay, dammit, stay. Well, a little longer at least.
You've probably spent a goodly portion of your yearly salary to get here, so
drink it in a little longer and get to the real gems that we've hidden away
from you, the stuff that even now I'm still uncovering for myself. All that
indecently hasty camera-waving don't impress no-one, you know?
Having said that, you're probably
better off avoiding spending too much quality time in Silver Street. There's
really nothing there you'd want to see. Honest.
Al Kitching ak118@cam.ac.uk