Educational School Trip or a Holiday?

The daylight was already filtering through the closed curtains of our small dormitory. A quiet conversation was whispered between us boys when either something was said or something happened which made me let out a whine. Afterwards, I felt nothing more of it, that is until Mrs Brown, fully dressed, strode into the bedroom with her repeated question:

Who squealed? Who squealed?

I admitted that I did. Mrs Brown, a rather tall, choleric primary school teacher then pulled back the bedclothes in which I was under and smacked my exposed thigh. Then she threw the covers back into place and walked out of the dormitory. At least I didn't cry.

Such an act of corporal punishment for what I have regarded as an insignificant offence was quite common around the late 1950s, into the 60s. But we, as the fledgeling Baby-Boom generation, regarded all this as normal, to be expected. Where was I back then? It was our primary school Summer-term two-week trip to Swanage in Dorset. As the school takes some pupils away every year, I remember at least two of these trips. To Swanage in Dorset. The other was at a hostel in Llangollen, North Wales.

Ballard Down cliff from Swanage beach.

Both these trips, which were paid for by my already hard-up parents, were meant to be both educational and for a chance of us inner-city Londoners to acquaint ourselves to the countryside and to the coast. And with quite a high level of disciplinary attitude. Whenever we were out and about, it was compulsory to walk in line with each pupil partnered up into twos, with the staff checking us over before told to move. In the evenings, before bed, we all had to fill in a diary we were each given, describing the place we had visited, even detailing the morning and afternoon weather.

At Swanage, I was immediately struck by the chalk cliffs of Ballard Down. I thought it was some kind of magic as we walked along Peveril Point from the esplanade, and watch from across the bay Old Harry Rock, the two Pinnacle Stacks and the southeast-facing cliffs beginning to unfold from beyond Ballard Point, as if like a telescope. As for being educational, up to this day, it's difficult to work out how knowledgeable our teachers were. Indeed, even at that young age, I was able to identify Ballard Down as a chalk headland, but geological terms such as Purbeck Stone and the very hard Portland Stone, both making up Durlston Bay, south of Swanage, as well as the coastline beyond, I doubt if our teachers knew anything of it all, let alone me. 

View of cliffs from Peveril Point, not seen from the beach. 

Like the time we were at Llangollen. The hostel is towered over by a high hill rising on the other side of the River Dee which flows through the town. The hill was topped by the ruins of Castle Dinas Bran, which gives a spectacular sight from our dormitory window. I asked the headmaster himself if he knew any history of the ruin. He apologised, unable to answer. But to be fair on him, which was long before the invention of the Internet, such research on the castle's history was very hard to come by.

When considering my own childhood experiences of school trips during term time - half-term in my day consisted of just Monday and Tuesday off, thus just a long weekend - I can't help having mixed emotions over those public schools and grammar schools sending their pupils to a skiing holiday in the Alps. Either I was grossly misinformed, or such holidays - and that's what they are, holidays in contrast to educational trips - I have thought such holidays had never existed during my boyhood days.

Physical activity? As a schoolboy, this meant long walks. And in Swanage, this included bathing in the sea at high tide, when there's hardly a beach between the lapping sea and the promenade wall. Although it was late Spring, it was cold and I couldn't swim. Furthermore, I was afraid of the abundance of seaweed washed up on the beach, discarded kelp fronds. From within the pile, (so I thought) some nasty creature may come out and bite! (And for the record, such abundance of kelp and sargassum fronds are now non-existent at our beaches. Indeed, I miss them.) 

What I thought was merely a day of leisure, a day at the (virtually non-existent) beach, it was much later I came to realise that this was part of a toughening up process the staff felt was a necessity in preparing us to face a challenging world as adults. And this included cold sea bathing with practically no other option. Even when we were staying at Llangollen, we were taken by coach to a beach which was infested with live jellyfish. We were still encouraged to swim. As far as I'm aware, there was no record of injury among us.

Kelp seaweed, abundant during my boyhood days.

Wind forward more than five decades and here I am, in full retirement. Although over such a timespan, memories linger. And so we are all under threat of a coronavirus epidemic, and it won't come as a surprise when this crisis is declared a global pandemic. What I have found so infuriating is that posh pupils from grammar and public schools have flown for a half-term skiing holiday to Northern Italy where unknown to them, the COVID-19 virus has already taken a foothold with the infection rapidly spreading.

These trips were proper holidays which, to me, are quite different from the school educational trips I had to go through. At all other times, I would have given them no other thoughts other than to wish them well. How they must have enjoyed themselves as each of them hurtling down a snow slope on two rails fixed to their feet. Then in the evening, it's the bar. Although too young for alcohol consumption, no doubt nightlife was provided for them. All paid for by parents who can afford the exorbitant price.

Apparently, say at a school of 300 students, about thirty go on such trips. Then at the start of the second half of term, a couple of students becomes unwell. The whole school is shut down and all 300 students quail with fear, pondering whether they might have picked up the virus, even if they did not fly out in the first place. And after the school closes down, those living within the vicinity start worrying. Then the rest of us begin to worry.

Maybe it's just me, who knows. But I believe that I would feel far more sympathy had those returning had been casualties of a Middle East war, who caught the infection whilst on the front line. Or volunteering medics out to lend assistance to Third World families suffering from malnutrition, who had picked up the virus. Or Christian missionaries and their volunteers unfortunate enough to become infected. I would even have greater sympathy towards those who flew out to be reunited with their families, or for those who were sent out by their employers to fulfil a contract. But a group of well-off students out on a skiing holiday? I think this what irks me most of all. The fact that skiing is quite an expensive activity which is patronised mainly by the middle-classes is the root cause of the rub.

And here I am, shaking in my shoes with fear, anxiety. Not just for me but for my beloved wife as well. Yes, I know. The death rate is only about 2% of all infected. But the majority who has died was mainly among the elderly and among those with existing health risks. Then what a shock when a newspaper announces that if the infection becomes widespread here in the UK, it's the younger and stronger patients who will be given priority for treatment, ahead of the elderly and the more vulnerable. A revival of eugenics in its own country of birth!

With my wife on recovery from breast cancer and myself, a senior citizen living with permanent heart failure, the risk from such an infection would be considerably higher. Therefore it really irks me to read that NHS doctors will give priority to treat a young student with wealthy parents and just back from Italy over my beloved who is in a worse condition due to an immune system weakened by chemotherapy.

But one thing I must be clear here. I'm fully aware that these pupils had no idea they were flying into an affected area. If they knew beforehand, no doubt they would have cancelled the trip or consider a switch to a safe destination. Therefore, with this in mind, I can't blame any of them. Not individually anyway. But I do blame the system. I know this is quite difficult, this blaming of an abstract quality instead of a person or a group of people. But I guess this is our British culture. Pampering the well-off student instead of throwing him into a cold, rough sea with piles of floating kelp and a few live jellyfish!

The ruin of Dinas Bran dominated our dorm window...

But holding resentment against the British class system will neither benefit nor hurt anyone other than myself. Such irksomeness will only destroy me, no one else. As far as I know, school trips of this calibre will continue to be organised, there will always be parents willing and able to pay. There is no hint whatsoever that skiing will go out of business - unless, of course, global warming will put and end of mountain snowfalls. But even if that was to happen, these elite bunch of pupils will find alternate activities in different destinations. It's all part of once privileged always privileged. 

Therefore, there is no benefit in holding a grudge, nor is there anything good in worrying or feeling anxious, having fears of the future. Instead, I can follow the footsteps of Jabez, an otherwise unknown Israelite found among a long list of names detailed in the first ten chapters of the Old Testament book of 1 Chronicles. In 4:10 an interruption of the long list of names is given for this Jabez, the wisest of a family of brothers. The name Jabez means pain in Hebrew, although it can also mean sorrow as in the KJV, as a more intense birth pain was felt by his mother at his birth, hence was given this name.

He simply turned to God and uttered this prayer:

Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.

And God granted his request.

This verse has been turned into a popular song which we sing at church. However, an extract from the Lord's prayer has been added to the original verse: Let your kingdom come, Let your will be done, On earth as it is in heaven...

It looks as if there is a hint of human nature within the thinking of the songwriter. Jabez prays: "Oh that you bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain." And that's it. Jabez did not condition his prayer with any form of a promise. A very simple request passed on to God, and this request was granted with no strings attached. That is the object of grace, undeserved mercy!

For everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved. Romans 10:13.

Either this is true or it isn't. The only requirement is to believe that this Jesus of Nazareth crucified is the risen Christ. It's a heart belief, a conviction that Jesus has risen from the dead physically. And from such a heart, just call on God to rescue you, and that's it. Paul promises that all who call on the Lord will be saved.

Of course, Paul is applying this to salvation, but not necessarily Jabez. Instead, he asks God for earthly blessings, the enrichment of this life, the here-and-now. I don't think there's any difference between praying for salvation or earthly enrichment. By calling upon God's name both were answered. Jabez may not fully understand about the afterlife in the same way we do, but having called upon God, he was saved as well as looked after whilst alive.

I have been in fear of this coronavirus. Mixed with this fear was my anger directed at those posh pupils arriving back from a skiing holiday now spreading the virus and threatening us all. It was in this pit of darkness when I remembered this piece of Scripture and I read it. And then I prayed:

Oh Lord, bless us (Alex and myself) and protect us, O Lord, from the threat of this virus. May you guard us, protect us and keep us free from this infection and from all illness relating to it.

Bless us, O Lord, and keep us financially secure. In Jesus' Name. Amen.

As the weeks come and go, we'll see whether God will answer our prayer. In the meantime, I have felt relief from such fear and anxiety.  

North Wales, Over Half A Century...

The two primary school teachers who supervised us both looked stern and serious as we were compelled to walk in an orderly double line along the quayside, each one of us having a partner, as we walked in almost military fashion towards what is to be the smallest house in Great Britain.

Of course, being just a boy with still quite a bit of growing up yet to accomplish, the property did not look that impressive. Rather it was big enough for me to enter easily, with plenty of room to spare. So concluded a coach trip to Conway, or as the Welsh spell it, Conwy, whilst staying at a special hostel, purposely built to accommodate city school children for up to two weeks at a time. The hostel was well-situated on the outskirts of Llangollen, another Welsh town crossed by the River Dee and towered over by the ruins of Dinas Bran Castle. 

The ruins of Dinas Bran dominates over Llangollen. 

Castelle Dinas Bran (possible meaning: Crow Castle), or rather what remains of it, sits on the summit of a hill overlooking the town of Llangollen, and therefore looking straight into our bedroom and lounge windows. Even while young, I was rather fascinated by the hilltop structure, and I even asked our teachers about any history of it. But without the Internet, they knew no more about it than this curious lad. At least, throughout the getaway, it was not military-style discipline all the time. After all, we were all children, and the staff were fully aware of this. And so, after a trip out, whether it was to buy candy with the pocket money supplied by our parents, a climb up the hill to play on the manicured lawn which was once the castle's flooring, or after a coach trip to Conwy, we were allowed some time at the swing park located nicely between the hostel and the fast-flowing river.

Of all primary school trips, this one, somewhere between 1960-1962, stands out in memory to this day. I always recall the excitement as we assembled at Paddington Station for the express train to what I believe was Ruabon Station, a few miles out of Llangollen. For the benefit of railway enthusiasts, in those days such a route was served by London Paddington. Nowadays it is served by London Euston. But as my father was so proud with owning and driving his own family car, it came as no surprise that as a child I hardly ever saw the inside of a train. Therefore such a journey made with the school was a unique experience. Other school Summer trips, such as to Swanage a year earlier, was always done by coach.

Whether Castelle Dinas Bran boded good or ill for me I cannot say. But in 1998, I made an effort to cycle all the way to Llangollen from my apartment in Bracknell. I did well as I passed through Henley on Thames, the posh venue for the famous annual Regatta, through Oxford with its magnificent University buildings, then through Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare, then through Birmingham as I headed towards Wolverhampton. It was while on a fast downhill burn-up when the bicycle frame suddenly snapped near the crankshaft, and I found myself wavering along the highway, on a zig-zag course which could have got me killed if another vehicle had gotten involved! Therefore I had no other option but to limp into Wolverhampton for an overnight stay at a pre-booked hotel to spend the night before locking up the crippled mount in the city centre and then finishing the journey by train and bus.

Gutted, utterly gutted, by thankful to God for sparing my life, or even from an ambulance trip to hospital. The break in the frame was a clean one caused by metal fatigue, and I wondered whether I could have had it welded back together at a bicycle shop. But not finding one straightaway, along with the possibly of the appropriate mechanic shaking his head in hopelessness, the cycle trip was therefore abandoned, but I still wanted to get to my final destination. This included passing through the Welsh town of Wrexham, which was actually on the scheduled cycle route.

From Wrexham station I sat alone in the train with my chin touching the floor in self-pity, leading to depression. I tried to convince myself that I did not abandon the ride out of choice or through physical or mental exhaustion, but through mechanical failure. Nevertheless, I felt as though I have failed.

 At the Smallest House to give the scale.

I eventually arrived at Llangollen, and claimed my bed at the backpacker's hostel which was quite a distance from town and even further away from our former school hostel. The place was almost empty of guests, except for one Spanish student who came into the UK to cycle around the country. When he saw me, he took an instant liking to me straight away, and at table, he began to talk to me with an endless torrent of incomprehensible Spanish. By asking him to slow down, I managed to pick out what he was attempting to tell me; that he was studying to be an accountant and was taking a break with a trip to the UK to see the sights on a bicycle. I cannot remember whether he brought his own bicycle here with him or whether he bought or hired a mount after arriving here.

At least he was able to raise my spirits, and gave me new hope. Even if I felt a failure, at least he didn't see me that way. Rather, he saw me as a source of encouragement, not to give up on his tour, even when feeling tired. The next morning he set off on his next leg of his journey on his bicycle while I sauntered into town on foot. As I looked up to Dinas Bran, it appeared at quite a different angle to the one so familiar, but as I walked on, this slowly changed. As I approached the town, feelings of reminiscence began to rise. After such a long time nothing had changed. The town remained the same, with the High Street continuing over the River Dee on a Medieval bridge. After crossing the river, it wasn't far to the start of a modern trail (which wasn't there before) leading up the hill to the ruins of Dinas Bran.

The setting was exactly the same as when I was a junior schoolboy. A sat there alone, meditating on my schooldays. From time to time families arrived and departed, but I remained on the summit for quite a while without any teachers or authority figures keeping an eye. After this, I walked on to find the very school hostel building I stayed at, and the swing park behind it. Sure enough, it was still there, unoccupied at that moment, but getting ready to receive another school group. It's original purpose hadn't changed either. Then I couldn't resist mounting one of the swings, perhaps the very same one I used some 36-38 years earlier. Not long after, I watched two elderly ladies, definitely pensioners, having a whale of a time laughing while swinging on the same swings! Without doubt, that hostel must have been serving its purpose long before I was even born.

Reminiscence! Reminiscence! How effective all this was. And just as well. For after just a few weeks after that failed bicycle ride, I met my future wife Alex.

And it was just this week when Alex and I boarded a fast train to North Wales from London Euston. Although we had to change trains at Chester, the remainder of the journey was uneventful. We arrived at Conwy station on time, which was just a couple of minutes walk to our hotel. 

Which goes to show how much love can overcome the problems a wheelchair can pose, especially laden with luggage. Guards were willingly at hand to help my wife to board and alight from each train using special ramps. Admittingly, we were both looked upon as someone special - or was it with a degree of pity? Either way, it was very helpful to see the work of Jesus Christ in action with these people, whether they were true believers or not.

She wanted to visit Conwy Castle, and I took her there. Fortunately for her, it was the time of day when she was partially mobile and she made an effort, unaided, to climb the spiral stairway in one of the turrets, quite an achievement for her. Then she returned to her wheelchair within the castle itself while I explored the rest of this Medieval fortress. Later, I took her to the Smallest House in Great Britain, which is built into the city wall, and facing the tidal estuary of the Afon Conwy with its many boats and a large sandbank island exposed during low spring tide. Indeed, everything seemed so different from the days of school trips. Even groups of young students in uniform appeared far more casual than what we had to go through, looking far more like a tour group than a school trip.

A short, ten minute train journey from nearby Llandudno Junction station to Llandudno terminus allowed a full day at this lovely Victorian seaside resort of Llandudno. From the pebbly beach I was able to bathe in the sea, as well as mingle in the thick crowds which populated the pier with its line of stalls selling anything between fish-n-chips to trinkets, both cheap and trashy to more expensive ornaments. Alex's wheelchair wasn't the only one there. We saw quite a number of disabled individuals in wheelchairs, some manual, some electric, as we strolled along the pier, and admiring the magnificent layered rock formation of Great Orme.

Great Orme, a mountainous headland which is difficult to believe that it was once an island before the formation of the peninsula on which the resort is now built. From its summit the Isle of Man can be seen, along with the Cumbrian mountains of the Lake District, on any clear day. Unfortunately, because of the wheelchair, we could not make it to its summit.

Great Orme Headland, taken July 2018. 

Then came the day we had to return home. Our train was not due to leave Llandudno Junction until mid-afternoon, and for a direct journey to London Euston without the need to change trains. Therefore, after checking out of our hotel in the morning, we had a few leisurely hours before making our way to the station. Once on board the train, at first all was well. However it was later in the journey when things began to go pear-shaped.

Alex developed a severe back pain which only Oramorph can relieve. Oramorph is actually Morphine, but taken orally rather than intravenously. When we left home a few days earlier, we left home prepared and made sure we were adequately stocked. The medicine we had did relieve the pain, but her back remained stiff, giving her much discomfort. After the train had pulled out of Milton Keynes station, the guard, who looked alarmed at the situation, offered to have the train emergency stop at Watford Junction. We declined the offer, saying that we much prefer to visit a London hospital. And so the train flew through Watford Junction station as scheduled. At London Euston Alex was as if paralysed in her wheelchair. The station staff helped us board a taxi to the nearest hospital, which was just around the corner from the terminus.

At Accident & Emergency, although the doctor visited, there was no treatment necessary. With my help, Alex was already recovering and her back muscles loosened. We agreed on a quick discharge in order to board the last train home from Waterloo Station. After our train was cancelled due to a signalling problem, we eventually arrived home near midnight, several hours later than originally planned.  

In such a condition, would we be able to travel long distance again in the future? Alex insist that we will. But I'm not too sure. To be honest, I'm now afraid to take her anywhere. I guess we have to wait and see.