At the age of 14 my parents had finally had enough of my teen angst and packed me off to boarding school. Sure, they dressed it up with
claims to be 'concerned about my education' and 'wanting what's best', but I knew the truth. As it turned out it, proved to be an excellent
opportunity to indulge in bouts of underage drinking well away from the disapproving glare of family, perpetual football, and the
bizarrely hilarious experience that is communal TV watching. So I'm not too emotionally scarred.
This formative phase of my life was spent in the sleepy, historic east Nottinghamshire town of Southwell (or, as about half the locals
call it, 'Suthell'), a prosperous little spot centred on the twelfth century Southwell Minster - a beautiful example of Norman church
architecture. The square towers that guard the west door, known locally as the pepper pots, can be seen from some distance. As a snotty
teenager such wonders were lost on me, obviously. For us the weekly assemblies in the medieval choir were something to be endured rather then
treated with any reverence. No admiring of fine stone carving in the chapter house for us; we preferred to giggle about the Deputy
Headteacher pointing out the 'boy with the magnificent organ' who accompanied our pitiful attempts at hymn singing. The thought still makes
me snigger - what a child.
The streets that line the Minster grounds, Westgate and Church Street, are some of the most desirable addresses in the area. Many of the
handsome Georgian houses have historic links with the church; the giveaway is the name 'Prebend'. The rest of the town is only worth a brief
daytime stroll or evening crawl. King Street has a pleasantly 'oldish' feel and is lined with shops for country ladies, the odd antique
emporium and a café or two. And then there are the pubs; for a small town Southwell is somewhat over-endowed with hostelries. In the days
when I was desperately trying to look older (quite the reverse of now obviously) the Crown and the Admiral Rodney were the places to get
served - probably best to avoid those then. The pub with proper history, however, is the Saracen's Head where Charles I stayed just
before he was captured by the Parliamentarians. These days it's a bit 'fusty' but it is one of the few places in town you can stay which may
be necessary as Southwell doesn't have a station and buses back to the city are not overly frequent.
The biggest town of note in the east is Newark, a market town sat on the Trent steeped in Civil War history. The prominent ruins of Newark
Castle occupy a picturesque spot on the riverside, all that's left of a major pounding when Newark was a Royalist stronghold. There are still
Tudor remnants around the attractive town centre alongside grand Georgian additions which mark the town's importance as a major trading
centre on the Great North Road (the A1 still runs close by). The market square forms a bustling focus for the town - there are markets most
days.
I spent a happy summer working behind the bar of The Mailcoach, one of the busiest pubs in a town of incredibly busy boozers. You can
get pleasantly sozzled here in an old Georgian coachhouse - just don't look 'funny' at any of the regulars. Although it isn't down-at-heel,
Newark doesn't have Southwell's prosperity; there are some ropier areas and no-go pubs. There is, however, Café Bleu (Castlegate,
01636 610141). When the Redhead needs cheering up, sometimes the only thing that will put a smile on her face is French finery and this
bistro serves it up in spades. Delicious seafood and steakfrites feature regularly on an imaginative menu all served up in light, friendly
surroundings on artistically jumbled wooden tables and mismatched furniture. So very cool. We prefer it at lunchtimes.
Newark has something of a reputation for antiques. Most of the town's dealers have moved to a permanent market on the edge of town and there
are frequent huge markets at the East of England Showground. It is also a town that is a regular haunt of The Sealed Knot Society that
come to Newark to perform civil war re-enactments. They spend the weekend wandering between the hostelries with their own flagons demanding
mead and ale. It seems to keep them amused.
Newark is on the east coast rail mainline, around an hour and a half from London Kings Cross and can be reached easily from Nottingham. If
you're an antique buff or have a Roundhead fetish then it could be your kind of town.