Cases were brought down and put onto the coach well before leaving time. If there was time to be killed, then a pleasant walk down to the local beach, sufficed.
Teachers inspected the dormitories and found all sorts of weird and wonderful items left behind. Some children refused to accept these items saying,
“It’s not mine.”
“Then how come your name tag is on it?”
Classroom materials and sports equipment had to be packed and put on the coach.
I always made sure to pack the bell away carefully and take one last look at the view to the sea from the terrace.
It wasn’t always so smooth, of course.
When Harold Macmillan, the ex British Prime Minister was asked what he most feared, his reply was, reputedly, “Events, dear boy, events.”
“Events” on a residential visit, or in a school, happen quite frequently.
One year, it was 18.30, all the cases were on the coach, supper was at seven, all the children were excited about leaving and Nicole handed me her mobile phone. It was the secretary from school who had been on the first trip the week before as the chief medical officer. She was one of the nuns from the “new order.”
“How are you? Yes I’m fine. All the cases are on the coach.”
“There’s no ferry.”
“This is a wind up?”
“No.”
“Yes it is.”
It wasn’t. I thought, though, that she was returning the wind up from the previous week.
It had been very windy during the day. Indeed Le Dossen beach at Santec was like a desert – sand blowing about furiously.
The afternoon ferry had not sailed from Plymouth and all ferries crossing the channel really had been cancelled.
Nicole then phoned Brittany ferries with our booking reference number and reserved reclining chair seats on the 16.30 ferry the next day.
“Events, dear boy, events.”
Once the ferry journey was done we usually had a last motorway stop at Exeter. The children telephoned home, their first direct contact with their parents for a week. (Before the visit, the school and parents had been told that no news from the château meant good news. In later years, a new head teacher insisted that there must be daily contact with the school.)
For me this was the most important stop. After eating and getting back on the coach a count was done as usual.
“Yes, everyone’s here,” the counting teacher said.
“Do it again.”
“What?”
“Do it again.”
It was done again with the same result and I now knew that unless there was a motor accident, all the children I started out with would be going back safely.
At school, the parents would be waiting in the playground, bags would be taken off the coach, some grateful parents would offer thanks and I would, after taking off classroom materials, my bag, beer and wine, thank all the staff and go home. I always made sure that no children or staff came in the next day. I needed a long sleep and everything could be left in the car overnight when I got home.
“Events, dear boy, events.”
One year I was woken early the next day by a phone call from the school secretary.
“Have you unpacked your bag yet?”
“No, it’s still in the car.”
“You took Emily’s bag and she took yours.”
“How do you know?”
“Emily’s mum started to take out the contents of the bag to wash and.....”
“Oh my God!”
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