I went to an excellent university, but the wine I consumed there was rarely of comparable quality. Cambridge’s venerable cellars are superb, but few colleges are stupid enough to serve their contents to undergrads, and while you could join wine-tasting societies, I didn’t.
My tutelage came via my father, whose logic was impeccable. I was going to drink cheap wine and, one way or another, he was probably going to pay for it. But with his knowledge, he could spend the same £3 (as it then was) and get something better than I, in my dipsomaniac ignorance, could manage. And so, each term, along with the bedding and the books, I brought up to my rooms a case of wine. It didn’t last long. But, without my realising, it contributed to my instruction.