Summer in the City, Sheffield

Reflection in Wall of Water

What If?

Beer of distinction

Winter Gardens

Andy Warhol exhibition

Town Hall

Peace Gardens and Town Hall

Sheffield Cutlery Sculpture

Newcastle Bridge on the Olympic Opening Day

On the day of the London Olympics opening, I was at a training event in Sheffield, a place where I had spent three happy years as a student over forty years ago. I decided to travel down by train the day before and hopefully get back home in time to watch the Danny Boyle epic opening ceremony for the Olympics. Sheffield was in its summer attire and as I walked up to the city centre from the successfully modernised railway station I was assailed by a wall of water that greets you to Sheffield before reaching the procession of civic buildings that have been built or refurbished over the past twenty years. Andrew Motion's poem on the side of a high-rise building prompted me to test the line: 'The City where your dreaming is repaid'. In what short time I would have in Sheffield, I intended to revisit and reflect on my life's adventure in Sheffield.

I wandered into the Millennium Galleries and Winter Gardens and then visited an Andy Warhol exhibition in the Graves Gallery. The city centre was alive with happy families soaking up the sun and seventy or so youngsters were running through the fountains in the Peace Gardens by the town hall. I briefly thought of joining them in the fountains but I had no other clothes with me so I resisted. I visited the splendid Town Hall and the Council officer on duty gave me a rundown of the main issues in the city.

Later in the evening, I met an old friend in the Peace Gardens, someone I had not seen since my twenty-first birthday. We visited the university area and I had intended to go to the old Raven pub that had been a Friday night haunt. It had been replaced by a new development of expensive flats, bars and cafes at the top of Fitzwilliam Street. There was a pedestrianised plaza with outdoor tables, just perfect for a relaxing beer on a balmy evening as we began to unscramble what had happened in our lives since the late 1960s. Having established an easy rapport we decided to visit one of the impressive range of restaurants in and around West Street.

We chose an Iranian restaurant, which was almost empty during the university's long summer closure that hit local businesses hard. The food was good and the conversation was even better. The Iranian waitress brought us sweet tea and a whisky on the house as we were the last customers, and we talked about her experience of life in Iran. She had overheard parts of our conversation after other diners had left and told us she had not wanted it to end. We had reprised our different life journeys since we had last met and she thought our enthusiasm for life had been infectious. We had revealed the essence of Andrew Motion's words: "The lives which wait unseen as yet, unread" but we could only dream of the past. It was almost midnight before I walked her to the bus stop as we had done 44 years ago. It reminded me of the many nights when I had walked 4 miles home to my digs after the last pint had caused me to miss the last bus.

The next morning I rose early and took a walk to Sheffield University before my training event started, it is just a mile or so west of the city centre and, along with the Hallam University campus in the heart of the city centre, the two universities create a vibrant city. But university term times mean that they are only fully utilised and occupied by 50,000 students for 60% of the year. Why do we persist with Higher Education having three-year degrees? Surely a degree could be achieved within 2 years with two 45-week study years instead of three years with only 30 weeks of study, 3 weeks of which are taken up by exams. The academics wouldn't like it but those who want to spend time on research or writing papers could teach for just one or two semesters each year and find more transparent funding for their research instead of using their teaching time.

In Scotland reducing the four-year degree to three years is a no-brainer. I recall discussing this with John Curtice from Strathclyde University six or seven years ago. He was staggered that the Scottish Government had not legislated for this although he recognised that the universities would resist this with vigour. He thought the arguments would be spurious in an economic climate of austerity. I had been aware that my children's university courses seemed far less intensive than my experience when there were 15 or so lectures a week as well as three practicals and a couple of tutorials. Saturday morning had us attending three lectures.

It would make sense not only to reduce the future debts of students who find three years of living costs on top of tuition fees a debilitating financial burden but also to be a means of making academics live in the real world. And why have empty facilities for 40% of the year?  Most of us survive on four to six weeks of holiday a year. If an academic year was split into three 15-week semesters, those who wanted to specialise in research could focus their teaching on one or two semesters. It would allow savings and greater efficiency in the deployment of Higher Education resources and maybe the opportunity to shift more funds to vocational training in the colleges.

At the end of a day's training course, I ran down to the station to catch the train back to Scotland, there had been jokes from the diverse group of participants during the leadership course about the quality of trains. It would appear from my colleagues based in the north of England that TransPennine Express is firmly bottom of the league of train operators and this is confirmed by customer surveys. I was travelling by East Coast but for the second time on the trip, my reserved seat was already occupied for the short trip to York. So was the seat on the next train from York to Edinburgh but there was an empty adjacent seat until 12 soldiers from Catterick joined me at Darlington. From the size of the carry-out, I presumed that it was going to be a heavy drinking session. After politely declining a bottle of Sol and a Jack Daniels from the soldiers at my table I gave up my seat so that they could get on with their session. I was called a real gentleman but more importantly, I got a quiet seat to enjoy reading the diaries of Chris Mullin as I passed through the northeast where he now chairs the Heritage Lottery Fund.

The Newcastle bridge was decked out in Olympic rings in the beautiful evening sky and the Northumbrian and East Lothian coast were shimmering in the rare summer sun. The train arrived in Edinburgh 15 minutes late, the soldiers were in full voice and I had to sprint for my connection through the chaos that is Waverley station during its refurbishment. I made it home before 10pm to hugely enjoy the Danny Boyle pageant. His pageant allowed me to relive many other periods of my life to put alongside the happy three years in Sheffield.