7. Camping and other holidays
Camping had two parallel meanings for me in my youngest days. With my mother and stepfather we had a series of wonderful holidays in the Lake District, Scotland (twice, the second in the Isle of Skye), Wales and more. My stepfather, in his youth, had travelled the length and breadth of Great Britain with his brother on a motorbike, with a small tent and minimal cooking equipment in a single rucksack behind them. Now a married man, my stepfather was obliged to arrange his camping in a manner acceptable to my mother. We had a ridge tent in three parts, containing a bedroom with a double camp bed for my stepfather and mother, another bedroom with a bed each for my sister and myself and, in the middle, a section that could open out as a sort of veranda where we sat to eat. Cooking was done on a three-ring Calor gas stove on a support so you could stand up to cook just like in a real kitchen. Campsites were chosen from those (not many in those days) that offered flush toilets, hot showers and laundry facilities. A heavy-duty car battery provided ample light. It would look quaint today, when campers, instead of fiddling around with poles and pegs and guy-ropes, inflate their tent and have it ready in five minutes, but it was like taking a luxury hotel around with you in the 1960s. My mother described us as “rough and ready campers”. I thought this hilarious and so did my Caldecott contemporaries when I described it to them.
Camping at Caldecott meant small ridge tents with three of us squeezed into each one. We slept in sleeping bags directly on the ground and were so close to each other that you could scarcely turn over in the night, or try to find a position where the bumps in the ground were less excruciating. Food was cooked over an open fire. Anything that fell onto the ground was eaten anyway. An oil lamp watched over us as we sat round the campfire after dinner, lustily singing the sort of songs we would not have got away with back at the Hatch or telling politically incorrect jokes. There was a chemical toilet in a tent and washing was done at a single cold tap or in the stream. This, I felt, was camping.
I have already referred to a few of these camping holidays and I cannot remember all of them individually. Junior camp was not so very far away and was mainly intended to teach us how to camp rather than see particular sights. Senior camp took us further afield. I remember Sussex, and the New Forest at least twice. For one of my first senior camps, Miss Leila offered a prize for the best journal of the experience. There were only three entries and mine came a poor third. I was at the adolescent stage when “Three Men in a Boat” seemed the funniest thing ever written and I unashamedly cribbed its manner. Announcing the results, Miss Leila referred to “Christopher, who is younger and inclined to make fun of people.” I daresay she would have disliked these memories too.
As the years passed, more ambitious things were tried. Mr. Marshall took us to France, Luxemburg and Belgium. I have disjointed memories of a marvellous holiday. I remember Dun-sur-Meuse as a place of infinite magic. So much so that, only a few years later, camping in France with my mother and stepfather, I implored them to include it in the itinerary. I had not been alone in admiring its charm and my heart sank as we approached to see blazing lights and signs announcing a “Ville Touristique”. We might as well have gone to Butlin’s. The campsite itself was much as before. It had a curious structure. There was a central lake where one could bathe. The tents were ranged around this while a small water channel ringed the perimeter. The purpose of the water channel became evident when we emerged from the toilet block and saw what we had just done begin its serene circumnavigation of the camp.
Though only May, it was a week of record heat. In Paris, most of my contemporaries could only sit by the Seine eating ice creams, something they could have done just as well by the Stour. I insisted on dragging myself around nonetheless. I think I saw the Eiffel Tower, without going up (funds were short). My clearest memory, though, is that, in the Jardins des Tuileries, a man called me. I turned round and he snapped a photo which he then tried to sell me. When I refused, he shouted angrily, “But you pose, you pose” and spat at me.
The border between Luxemburg and Belgium offered insights into the way customs arrangements worked between friendly countries – this was years before Schengen. A sign told us to stop so, being British, we stopped. About a hundred yards up the hill was a small wooden hut. We waited patiently until, after about five minutes, a burly, uniformed official appeared at the door of the hut with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. With the other hand, he waved us majestically on.
Brussels was not the vast European capital it has since become. Camping on the outskirts, we took our individual ways towards the centre. With some sort of Cathedral visible in front of me, it seemed a pity to waste money on a map, so I trudged on. The Cathedral never seemed to get any nearer so in the end I found a kiosk and bought a map. After due perusal, I worked out that I had been on some sort of ring road and was now on the opposite side of what was then a fairly small town. Aided by the map, I went back via the centre, but was too footsore to appreciate much. The others seemed to have managed better.
A detailed account of this camping trip appeared in the Summer 1970 edition of Caldecott’s magazine, “The Herald”*. A comparison between my description above and this contemporary diary provides useful food for reflection on memories and also, perhaps, forgettories. Since I am alluded to there, I will explain that in Dun-sur-Meuse, tempted by the extreme heat, the enticing central swimming pool and the lack of bathing trunks, I decided that underpants would serve the purpose equally well. I do not recall that they became transparent when wet, as the writer claims. I do remember that they felt floppy and uncomfortable and I decided to call it off. I remember, too, that some spectators thought it amusing, and I recall them as a group of boys. The writer says they were girls and he would doubtless have been eying any in sight.
The following year, Mr. Marshall took a group to Holland, but this was my A Level year and I remained behind to study.
Half-term holiday trips were obviously limited to local places of interest. Maidstone, Canterbury, Hythe, Folkestone and Dover were obvious and frequent ports of call, sometimes extending to Hastings. I certainly saw the castles of Dover, Deal and Walmer, but I am a little confused here. Once a term, my mother and stepfather would come to take me out, resulting in an excursion to some such place, so a few of these visits may not have been with Caldecott. I do not think we ever got as far as the northern Kentish coast – Ramsgate, Margate, Whitstable and so on.
Some of our trips had a more specific aim. Apart from visiting Dungeness power station with Miss Travers, Mrs. Robson took us to see Lydd Airport and Mr. Marshall took us to see HMS Victory. This was probably during one of our New Forest camps, since Portsmouth seems a long way. I have vague memories of attending the re-enactment of the Battle of Hastings. This would have been in 1966 but I only remember a confused scene in period costume.
As Whitsun approached, Mr. Draper, as Headmaster, informed the juniors that, at Caldecott, we did not have a Whitsun holiday – most English schools had a week off. Miss Murdin claimed it was a sign of a good school that it did not stop for Whitsun. By that token, Caldecott could vie with any school in the land. However, Mr. Draper added, one day later in the summer term, a bus would be hired to take us for a day at the sea. I only remember one such day, though logically there would have been three before I started going to school in Ashford. If they were all much the same, perhaps my memory is combining three days as one. My principal recollection is of how slowly the bus went – I think the East Kent omnibus company must have conceded us its oldest stock. The venue was Littlestone-on-Sea. Present day photos show it much as it was then – a bleak open beach with a line of houses behind and not much opportunity to get up to mischief. The wind blew the sand into your eyes and it was bitterly cold when you came out of the water. The Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch trains could be heard tooting as they passed slightly further inland. It had been drummed into children’s consciousness since times of yore that a day at the sea was the ne plus ultra of human enjoyment and we returned duly convinced we had had a great time.
* The Association site has a number of issues of “The Herald” but not, at present, this one.