A View From The Boatyard

On June 23rd 1912, in a non-descript house in London, a young man was born who would go on to shape the very core of how the world operates today. A bold statement, no doubt, but his achievements during what would prove to a short life have had such a stunning effect.  That young man was Alan Mathison Turing, whose academic work later formed the building blocks for computer science and artificial intelligence. As a result, he is widely regarded as the father of the computer.

Alan Turing

An innovation of that magnitude was almost certain to guarantee Turing a well-deserved place in the annals of history. However his influence extended even further: due to his formidable mathematical abilities, he was recruited to play a key role in the British intelligence’s World War Two code-breaking operations at Bletchley Park. Turing devised various techniques for breaking German codes and was instrumental in the eventual cracking of the Enigma code, a breakthrough that played a vital role in turning the tide of the war against the Nazis.

Turing Bombe

As if being the mastermind behind a device which runs almost every aspect of our modern lives and playing a pivotal role in helping to win the war wasn’t enough, Turing’s private life unwittingly turned into something of formidable magnitude in its own right. Turing was, at a time when it was still illegal in the United Kingdom, openly homosexual. Despite his amazingly brilliant academic career, no allowance was made for Turing’s sexuality and this was ultimately going to contribute to his early death aged just 41.

In early 1952, during a police investigation into a break-in at Turing’s house, partly abetted by a man he had been in a relationship with, both men were charged with gross indecency under Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885. Turing was given a choice between going to jail or receiving chemical female hormone treatment, essentially castration through injections. He opted for the latter.

To add insult to injury, Turing had his security clearance revoked as a result of his conviction, meaning that he could no longer carry on working for the Government’s Communications Headquarters. This deprived GCHQ of one of the finest minds in Britain at a time when his considerable talents could have been put to great use in helping to decipher Soviet codes; this was, after all, a time when the Cold War was just kicking into life. There was a great deal of public hysteria at the prospect of Soviet agents using homosexual entrapment to gain an upper hand in espionage.

Just two and a half years later, Alan Turing was found dead at his home in Cheshire by his cleaner. After a post-mortem, the cause of Turing’s death was established to be cyanide poisoning; an apple with a bite taken out of it was found next to his body, although this was never tested for poison. A further inquest into his death determined that he had committed suicide, although this conclusion was questioned by his mother, who believed that the poison had been ingested accidentally as a result of his academic work with dangerous chemicals.

Alan Turing plaque outside his home in Cheshire

In the years that have followed since Turing’s death, an enormous number of posthumous accolades, dedications, awards and other honours have been bestowed upon him by individuals and organisations from around the world. To list all of them would require an article of virtually immeasurable length, but there are few particularly notable ones worth flagging up:

Time Magazine named Turing in the list of the 100 Most Important People Of The 20th Century, in an article to commemorate the new millennium.

In 2002, Turing was ranked 21st in a BBC pole of the 100 Greatest Britons of all time, voted for in a nationwide poll by the general public.

The Turing Award is given away annually by the Association of Computer Machinery to a person within the technical community whose work is acknowledged by their peers as being the most influential during that particular year. The award is very well-renowned indeed and is considered to be the computing equivalent of the Nobel Prize.

In September 2009, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown issued an apology for the utterly appalling way in which Turing was treated during the criminal proceedings. The UK legislature has stopped short of issuing a pardon for his conviction, mainly due to the fact that he was not unjustly charged, as the acts he admitted to were illegal at the time, even though they have since been de-criminalised.

The most appropriate way to finish this post is by quoting the words of Gordon Brown, when issuing the aforementioned apology, and Time Magazine when naming Turing in their list of influential people. Brown said: “while Turing was dealt with under the law of the time and we can’t put the clock back, his treatment was of course utterly unfair… So on behalf of the British government, and all those who live freely thanks to Alan’s work I am very proud to say: we’re sorry, you deserved so much better.” Time summed up his overall contribution to the world rather well: “the fact remains that everyone who taps at a keyboard, opens a spreadsheet or a word-processing program, is working on an incarnation of a Turing machine.”

The following essay was written for us by Derek Elliott. Derek, as well as being one of our punt chauffeurs, is working towards his PhD in history at Cambridge University.

As a student and river guide in Cambridge, one of the questions I’m asked most frequently by visitors is, ‘Where is the University?’ The simple answer, ‘That there is no main university’, is often met with stares of baffled incredulity, as though the locals are having them on. However, unlike most universities in the world (except Oxford), the University of Cambridge has no central campus per se, but instead is an amalgamation of colleges, departments and faculties, research centres and institutes. The closest thing that could be called ‘The University’ is the Senate House, adjacent to King’s College Chapel, just off the Market Square. It is the only common university building that all successful students, regardless of their college affiliation or subject of study, will visit to receive the degrees they have worked so hard to achieve. This is because Cambridge’s thirty-one colleges are all autonomous institutions governed by the federal university body in Senate House. 

The Senate House, Cambridge. With thanks to www.cambridge2000.com

A more complete answer to visitors is that actually the University, or its parts, are all around us. The colleges are of course easy to spot but most visitors do not realise that the reach of the colleges extends far beyond the quiet and ancient courtyards and chapels. When you exit the college gates to walk the pavements, go shopping or dine in one of Cambridge’s famous pubs, you have actually never left the colleges’ grounds. Students are studying in their rooms, attending lectures, and meeting with their supervisors above, beside, and sometimes even beneath the town’s streets. Ever since the first college, Peterhouse, was established in 1284, colleges have been expanding beyond their walls to fill the needs of ever-increasing numbers of students. As a result, most of the land in the city of Cambridge is owned by the various colleges and used for a variety of purposes.

Colleges have bought up most of the land for one primary reason: to provide for their current and future students. Land and buildings provide investments whose income is later used to tide the colleges over in times of economic hardship, and to support stipends, bursaries and scholarships to students. Take King’s Parade for instance. Across the road from the pinnacles of King’s College Chapel sit myriad shops, restaurants and cafes at street level, all of which are owned and leased by King’s College, which retains the floors above to house its students and fellows.  Even in the heart of the city, between Heffers bookshop (Trinity Street) and Sainsbury’s supermarket (Sidney Street), sits Wolfson Court, a massive five-storey ziggurat-like residence block, which accommodates 90 Trinity College students. It lies almost completely hidden from view until you climb up the spire of Great St Mary’s Church, where it dominates the skyline. Incidentally, it may come as no surprise to learn that the sites of both Heffers and Sainsbury’s are also owned by Trinity College.

Wolfson Court, Trinity College. With thanks to www.cambridge2000.com.

Providing accommodation is an ever-growing concern to Cambridge colleges. There are more students attending the University than ever before in its over 800 year history. All undergraduates are expected to live within the college, or in its residences, unless they receive special permission (which can be difficult to obtain) to live elsewhere. No matter where they decide to stay, in college or out, undergraduates must live within the university precincts, which are defined in the regulations to, ‘extend three miles from Great St Mary’s Church, measured in a straight line’. Graduates have a little bit more leeway; they can live up to ten miles from the church. Originally this regulation was passed in the days before motorised transport, and it was thought that riding in to college to attend seminars would take up too much of the students’ time.

One young student who was exempted from this regulation was Prince Edward, future King of England, who lived in the Madingley Hall estate, well outside the boundaries of Cambridge. His mother, Queen Victoria, rented the Hall for her son in 1860, but his time at Cambridge was cut short, having to return home after the death of his father, Prince Albert, in 1861. Of course, most students do not have such regal connections and thus must abide by the regulations, which considering that most social life takes place within college, suits most students just fine. Connections or not, one of the more recent members of the Royal Family to attend Cambridge, Prince Charles, lived right in Trinity College, in a set of rooms overlooking the River Cam.

Madingley Hall, Cambridge

In the past, the long reach of the colleges provided many points of contention between town and gown. Colleges used to regulate which shops could open and where, making sure to keep establishments of ill-repute away from their young students, and even used to contest the opening of restaurants, afraid students would take their meals (and money) outside of college dining halls. Today, however, the City of Cambridge and the University have a symbiotic relationship and both derive great benefits from each other. When you visit Cambridge, look for students hustling through narrow doorways wedged between shop fronts with books in hand and remember that whether in the college grounds proper or whilst wandering the city streets, the colleges are all around you. So don’t be too upset if one of the colleges you wanted to visit isn’t open on a particular day. Just look around, the chances are you’re already standing on its grounds and staring at its buildings.

Below is a fascinating article written by Zoe Crisp. Zoe is a final year PhD student in the faculty of history at Cambridge University. The title of her thesis is: ’The urban back garden in England in the nineteenth century’. 

A punt tour from the Mill Pond in the south to Magdalene Bridge in the north will take you past the great College gardens of the University of Cambridge. You punt first past Darwin College’s cottage-style gardens which run right down to the river. Gliding under Queens’ College’s Mathematical Bridge, you are soon able see the immaculate expanse of King’s College back lawn sweeping down from the soaring chapel to the river. A little further on, making your way under one of the elegant trio of arches that support Clare College Bridge, you can see the colourful herbaceous borders and tall cypress trees of the Clare Fellows’ Garden. Behind the high wall on the opposite side of the river, just before you get to the Jerwood Library, are the gardens of Trinity Hall. Henry James, if ‘called upon to mention the prettiest corner of the world,’ ‘should draw a thoughtful sigh and point the way’ to those very same gardens. Further on, as the river curves round, you can see the Backs of Trinity College to the left, and the lawn that separates the Wren Library from the river on the right. Then there are the gardens of St John’s College to the left, and finally, after you pass under the heavy black and gold ironwork of the Magdalene road bridge, the front gardens of Magdalene College are the last college gardens that you can see from the river.

Clare College Fellows' Garden, Cambridge

Less than a mile away in distance (if not in in character) from the College Backs, however, are Cambridge’s other back gardens: the thousands of small square or rectangular plots of land, attached to Cambridge’s Victorian terraced houses. Today, these gardens may be decked, planted, or water-featured but a hundred and fifty years ago, when the houses were first constructed, these plots would have looked very different. The most obviously different feature would have been the privy – an essential in any back garden in the days before mains water or sewerage. A privy was an outside toilet: a simple board with a hole in it, with a cesspit below. At best, this cesspit could be perfectly respectable, regularly emptied by the ‘night-soil men’ with their carts and buckets, but in the worst cases, it could be abhorrent, overflowing with solid and liquid filth. In the smallest yards (most central Cambridge back gardens were around 40-50m², or around half the size of the six-yard box on a football pitch), it was noted by a justifiably fastidious explorer that ‘privies, pigsties, and midden-heaps are crowded together so closely as to prevent the passage of a person of ordinary bulk, without his incurring a risk of contact with some kind of filth.’ Some of the poorest inhabitants in the worst urban areas (the Market Square area of Cambridge used to be a notorious slum) did not even have the ‘luxury’ of a privy: ‘Some persons have not even cesspools or privies,’ noted an 1840s reporter; ‘all their excrements are thrown into a little back yard, where they are allowed to accumulate for months together.’

In addition to the privy, there might have been a pit for the ashes from the inevitable coal fires in the house, and perhaps a water-butt for rainwater. Laundry lines dominated the gardens of the 1850s as they do the gardens of today. In fact, part of the justification for providing working-class houses with their own private back gardens was so that potentially embarrassing articles of laundry (knickerbockers, shifts, corsets etc.) could be hung up to dry in the privacy of the back yard, rather than strung out indecently across the very public street.

Nosing at the knickerbockers on the laundry line might have been a dog, a donkey, or a pig. ‘There is a strong dispensation on the part of the working classes to crowd up their already confined yards with pigsties, hen-roosts etc.’ wrote a critical commentator in the 1880s. Other people would use their yards for ‘tripe, trotter and cow-heel boiling’ – much to the displeasure of their neighbours. Even in the worst slums, however, back yards could be turned to the cultivation of flowers and green stuff, much to the approval of this 1840s moralist: ‘Something may be hoped for in people who can feel “a joy in flowers,” and cultivate roses and geraniums in the polluted atmosphere.’ Even in the most overcrowded parts of Victorian Cambridge you could ‘suddenly come upon a garden so exquisitely arranged and cultivated,’ and be ‘positively startled at its appearance in a region which seems eaten up with dinginess and dun colour.’

It is unlikely that the ordinary back gardens of Victorian Cambridge, however exquisitely arranged or cultivated, were the equal of the great fellows’ gardens of Trinity or Clare, but vegetables, flowers, and shrubs could abound nonetheless. For those modern gardeners looking to plant out their spring snowdrop or crocus bulbs, be advised that, ‘a centre of deep blue, surrounded by a ring of white, then a ring of orange, and a circle of lilac as edging makes a telling bed,’ at least in Victorian eyes. Vegetable-wise, you could grow a ‘mammoth gourd’ or pumpkin, your own ‘salading’ – mustard-and-cress, spring onions, lettuce, radishes, and endive – or rows of cabbages. As for your lawn, the head gardeners of Trinity Hall would be hard-pressed to match the immaculate green carpets of Victorian ‘grass-plats’: nineteenth-century garden writers sternly warned against allowing dandelions, daisies, plantains and cats to thrive in your back gardens. Finally, you could edge your impeccable lawn with a string of ‘Messrs’ Loomes and Co. of Whittlesea’s Cable-Pattern Edging Tiles.’

Although it started out as a very serious and almost exclusively masculine pursuit, urban gardening for all, then as now, was a balm to the stresses of city living. As you get off your punt and return to your weekday office grind, remember the words of this 1850s gardener: ‘Our whole life, from infancy onwards, has been spent between these begrimed walls, there is the greater need to be continually reminded that there is a world of perennial loveliness beyond the influence of our commercial hurry, to which if we will sometimes turn for solace and refreshment, we shall escape having our souls crushed out of us by the sharp edge of a shilling.’

The River Cam along the College Backs is set the be lowered on Monday 9th January to enable vital inspection work to be carried out.

As a result, we will not be open at either our Mill Lane or Magdalene Bridge Stations on that day. Customers will still be able to hire craft in the direction of Grantchester, though.

This once-a-year closure of the lower river is a vital part of the conservation of the buildings and land along the College Backs route.

Once the river has been lowered to a sufficient level, engineers from Cambridgeshire County Council will carry out a survey of all of their property along the route.

In addition to being an important process for conservation, the lowering of the river does allow tourist and locals to view the College Backs in a vastly different manner to normal.

Anyone thinking about donning their Wellington Boots and going for a wander along the riverbed should be aware that there will still be a trickle of water left, the river will not be completely drained.

We also advise any prospective adventurers to watch out for the various pieces of debris which will undoubtedly festoon the riverbed, having been jestisoned in over the past months and years – bikes will no doubt be a common sight.

We would certainly be interested in receiving any photographs that you might take of the lowering however, the best entries will certainly find a home on our blog and Facebook page.

Below Ed Hunt, one of our chauffeurs, gives his thoughts on punting through the winter. We get the impression that he is going to become quite attached to those marigolds….

Smack!

I’ve heard that sound, of the pole hitting the river bed, a thousand times.  It seems particularly loud at this time of year.  Perhaps it’s the knowledge that, on the other side of the season’s must-have canary yellow marigolds that I’m sporting, the pole is as cold as ice.  Or perhaps it’s because I know I must push ever harder against the treacherous ground to overcome the powerful currents caused by last week’s rain.

All I know for sure is that the people keep coming to hear me tell them about the college backs.  And when I remember that, the harshness of that Smack! softens.  It softens because I remember the following: that if you’re on a tour at this time of year, you really want to hear what I have to say.  Then I remember what every chauffeur knows: that the best tours are a dialogue.

The Australian lady in front of me asks me how Trinity College got so rich (it’s the third wealthiest landowner in Britain, with assets worth an estimated £1.5 billion), and I smile.  I smile because I get to tell her about the vast tracts of land, stretching across central England, of which Trinity is the owner.  I smile because we can joke about the globulous, womanising King Henry VIII whose murderous acquisitions bankrolled Trinity’s foundation.  The incomparable architecture of Cambridge, and the stories that the buildings tell, are there whatever the weather.

Fast forward to Saturday evening, and I’m on the river again.  This time, I’m taking a ghost tour, the material for which, though hugely entertaining, is complex and narrative-driven.  The knack to a ghost tour is timing.  It’s especially hard now, since the winter winds whistling past the Bridge of Sighs are slowing down my progress.  I wonder whether the story of the Friendly Ghost of St. John’s will last as long as I need it to before I move on to the tale of the poltergeist of Stockbridge Antiques.  But then I smile.  I smile because I remember how much I love these stories.  My smile broadens as I think of the story that I will tell in a few minutes of Waterloo Teeth, dentures made with pearly-whites stolen from the mouths of the war dead of 1815, and the uniformity with which the palms of my guests will fly to cover their faces in horror.  Just like the daytime tour, the ghost tour at this time of year brings only those who really want to hear the tales that I unfold.

The windy night has blown away the clouds and brought a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning.  Everyone at Scudamore’s is in a mood as bright as the glinting sunshine, in the knowledge that the promise of a beautiful day with enthusiastic guests will be kept.  As I don my marigolds for my first tour of the day, I am pleased to be getting on the back of a boat full of people eager to hear about the centuries of trial, tribulation, and glory that Cambridge has endured and enjoyed.  As we glide down the river, I point out Clare Bridge, the only one on the river not torn down by the Civil War leader Oliver Cromwell in the late 1630s.  I’m reminded of Cambridge’s ability to adapt and to survive, no matter what the forces of history may throw at it.  And I’m glad to be a part of it.

And I smile.