Beaches, Boundaries and the Chief Medical Officer

The beaches in Northern Finistère can be magnificent. One visit might be to Pors Guen near Plouescat, a thirty minute drive from the château. Once on the beach boundaries were set for the children. These were vital. They were where you could and could not go. They were some corner of a foreign field. Boundaries were set everywhere: at the grounds of the château, inside the château, on the ferry to Brittany, at motorway stops – everywhere. Cross the boundary and pain would occur.

On one occasion the group were together on the beach and a child was told to run with a blue plastic cricket stump and impale it in the sand eighty metres to the left. Fifty metres to the right was a large mound of rock not, under any circumstances, to be climbed. Behind, sand dunes, not to be explored, and straight ahead, one hundred metres away, the sea. These were the boundaries. These were our borders. So having explained all of this, the natural question had to be asked: namely,

“What are the boundaries, Amy?” A silence followed and I knew that she didn’t know because as I had been pontificating she’d been more interested in establishing a meaningful relationship with a sand fly beneath her feet. “Right, Amy, run to the blue cricket stump over there and wait.”

Once the boundaries were set the children could do their own thing: the sun worshippers, the excavators, the dam builders, the footballers, the builders, the architects, the moaners, the catchers, the gigglers, the cricketers and very occasionally the seaweed boys.

Seaweed on a few of the beaches was extensive and often it was collected by cart and tractor and used as a fertilizer. However, sometimes it was shaped like a jellyfish with five or six long, long tentacles of seaweed hanging down from its head. Well, the seaweed boys would place this on their heads and strut up and down the beach looking like some newly-fashioned monsters from Dr Who.

Cricket in Brittany was a religion. There was a ‘test’ match each day on the beach for those who wanted to play. The rules? Well, I threw or bowled underarm: off breaks, leg breaks, flippers, straight ons, inswingers, or late reverse. No ‘no’ balls were allowed and the bowler was the umpire! The teams were picked, the pitch laid and fifteen minutes into the game the chief medical officer (of whom more later) shouted out,

“Can Amy come back now?”

A forlorn figure was still standing at the blue stump boundary. “Yes, she’s too far out at square leg anyway, bring her to short square.”

Once the umpire decided that tea was to be taken, a couple of the staff might well take the children into the water. Swimming was banned many years ago or, it should be said, the rules and regulations issued by the local education authority meant stringent restrictions. We allowed the children to go up to their knees in the sea and no more. Discrimination, therefore, for the dwarfs and the giants, the vertically enhanced or the vertically challenged!

After an hour or two at the beach the Acme Thunderer whistle was blown. It was a true relic, an antique, a perfect sound for gathering the troops. After the necessary changing and faffing about, we counted heads and returned to the coach. There, another count of heads. A drink or an ice cream was now on the cards. A quick chat with the coach driver and the prescription ordered might be Mogueriec.

If you wanted a very small, pretty fishing port specialising in lobsters and crabs then Mogueriec was the ideal place. With children it was almost perfect: no busy roads, a small, safe beach, a bar with plenty of seats outside, ice creams and lemonade a plenty and a chance of seeing locals playing boule. That’s not to say accidents didn’t happen. But that’s what the chief medical officer was for, was it not? This post was an essential one for the trip to Brittany and a job specification might go something like this.

1. Ascertain, before the visit, all known physical ailments, mental aberrations, drug requirements, nocturnal activities and dietary abnormalities.
2. Label all drugs and times for their administration.
3. Carry, at all times, the green, (no other colour permitted) standard issue first aid kit.
4. Re-assure any concerned parents that poisonous snakes, rabid dogs and vampire bats were not yet operating in the vicinity.
5. Identify the names, addresses and telephone numbers of each individual’s parents/guardians, doctor, therapist or psychologist.
6. Be a comforter to the homesick, the lonely, the hysterical and the forlorn.
7. Direct the leader of the party that a child does need to go to the hospital – and now.
8. Keep calm, have a sense of humour and be a mother figure to both children and teachers.
9. Be available, for up to thirty children, twenty four hours a day.
10. Carry enough euros and cents to be fleeced at dominoes, crib, pontoon, knockout whist, chase the lady, seven card stud or three card brag.

What was offered in return? No supervision of the children at any meals whilst at the château!

Once, at the Tuesday market in St. Pol, a child bought a penknife, a hanging offence in itself. The boy, testing its sharpness, gave unspoken permission to his skin to allow an incision and—surprise, surprise—bright red, sticky liquid started to flow onto the pavement. The poor mite decided to tell the chief medical officer that he had slipped and hence the magical wound. Once it had been cleaned, and a plaster given, a punishment was imposed and the knife confiscated.

One year a child had a severe nut allergy: no traces at all or else anaphylactic shock. Some of her own food was brought, the château informed and we hoped all would be well; and it was. Another year we noticed that a girl forced herself to be sick in the toilet after the main course. This, of course, became a worry. The chief medical officer monitored her carefully for the rest of the trip. Over the years quite a few children had inhalers. Some were allergic to various foods, a couple were on Ritalin and individuals had been diagnosed with dyspraxia and dyskinesia. There were a couple of vegetarians (the French staff at the château couldn’t understand this concept) and a few budding hypochondriacs. The chief medical officer had responsibility for all.

Back to Mogueriec. Indeed it was here that an unusual incident occurred. One of the boys, let’s call him Joe, had a phobia about dogs. He didn’t like them, was scared when they were around and avoided them at all costs. Bingo, at Mogueriec he stroked a dog with the rest of the children. For teachers this was a big thing. Good work in the classroom here was not seen by me as the main point of the visit. Getting on with other children, the advantages and disadvantages of communal life, the nurture and growth of independence from family, and fending for oneself, were the real aims.

But whilst Mogueriec was very pretty a real beach star was the Île de Batz.