The (temporary?) fall of Communism was not good news for the majority of residents - the husband of my hozyaika had left his family of three on being made redundant under Yeltsin. Another friend of the family, a qualified government scientist, now struggled to support his family as a security guard.
Perhaps it was peculiar to envisage poor families living in fashionable nineteenth century town houses' shells, but the sense of pride in the past, even the Soviet regime, was expressed by many whom we met.
Having learned about Russian youth culture and the many dangers of life in Russia at our language school we virtually believed the media's depiction of St Petersburg as something akin to 1920's Chicago. In reality, nothing could have been further from the truth, and when temperatures soared, the city seemed laid back - the rabbit hat sellers from two years ago had evaporated too.
St Petersburg has come close to reconciling modernity with imperial elegance, and St Petersburg's new neon signs cannot possibly attract attention away from the opulence of the Winter Palace, the grandeur of the Mariinsky Theatre, or the beauty of the Summer Garden with the snow gently falling; yet still, one cannot fail to be both impressed and shocked by the brutally frantic but frighteningly efficient metro system (including the world's longest escalators), and the rather less reliable but equally cramped tram network.
Our two week exhaustive language course not only allowed us to greatly increase our confidence in written and spoken Russian - beginning to acquire Russian accents, even - and in some cases developing crushes on our teacher, Tatyana, but also to form our opinions about Russian life, the heavy cuisine, the often bitterly cold weather, the contrasts between rich and poor living side by side, and many other diversities.
There are many images in my mind, such as the icebergs gently wending their way out to sea along the majestic River Neva at night, which will serve as lasting memories of the trip - all the more special because I am sure that when I return there, this beautiful but troubled city will have undergone even more changes.
Subhi Sherwell (College)
Every one of us ate very well, and wherever we went, we were made to feel most welcome. Westerners are still something of a novelty in Japan, and everyone seemed interested to hear about England and its culture. One aspect that struck us was how everything is so organised, even down to the train doors lining up with the little markers along the platform, with passengers queuing in regimental form only at these points.
The most significant problem was, of course, communication. There was a wide variation in the amount of English the various host families spoke, and after only a year of Japanese we all felt a little unsure of our abilities. It is surprising, however, how much comes back to you when you really need to remember, and we all managed to negotiate our way around Tokyo without getting lost.
A few days were spent on the campus of Keio High School itself, a very different place from Westminster (room 302 could be relied upon to be on the third floor between rooms 301 and 303). We went to all sorts of lessons - from Maths to character writing classes - and spent some time standing in front of Japanese classes telling them about ourselves and England.
The majority of our time, however, was spent visiting Tokyo, either visiting temples, admiring Daibutsus (large statues of Buddha), or having tea with Sir John Boyd (BB 1949-54), the British Ambassador. We also visited the Tokyo office of Reuters and were shown around their news facilities. The mixture of diplomatic and commercial links and invitations with the opportunity to stay in Japanese homes gave the group a real feeling of familiarity with Japan and the Japanese, and our hosts at Reuters emphasised that some knowledge of Japan is a real advantage in today's commercial world.
The highlight of our second week was a three day visit to Kyoto (the capital of Japan from 794 until 1868) and Nara, where we followed the full tourist track. This was the only time it rained during our two week stay, but the views of gardens and temples were magnificent.
A very enjoyable and memorable time was had by all, and we are all grateful in particular to Kyoko Miyazato and Paul Gilson for the effort they took to make sure we enjoyed ourselves. This is certainly an exchange I would recommend unreservedly to anyone with the opportunity to go.
James Gazet
Customs tend to prefer incoming travellers to be in possession of a passport. They tend not to react kindly to the news that it is in fact fleeing back to its country of origin, at the mercy of but a few cheaply employed British Airways cleaning ladies. The Spanish physique can be quite intimidating at times as they all bear a disturbing resemblance to Oddjob, though they adamantly refuse to remain sinisterly mute. Instead they ramble incomprehensibly and at high velocity. Fortunately, our guardian was capable of rambling back, if at a slightly less ferocious speed, and the necessary trips to the British Embassy were made less abusive as a result.
Of course, the purpose of this trip was that we should become capable of these skills ourselves and, upon arriving in the ex-capital of Spain that is Valladolid, we were promptly bundled off in pairs for incarceration with a Spanish family who tutored us through this difficult week. Valladolid is an historic and culturally rich town, contrasted by advanced industrialisation, and I am sure that the family attempted to tell us all this as we drove back to their flat. Sadly their efforts reaped little reward.
Urban entertainment came in the form of amusement arcades, dimly-lit basket ball courts and loitering on the windy terraces of cafés. Cafés seemed to be the cultural centre-point of Valladolid, much like pubs are to the British. However, the Spaniards do demonstrate their supremacy in two very distinct ways: firstly, they have socially realistic licensing hours and secondly, and most strikingly, they have marble loos. This stunning innovation is complemented by bidet-style sinks, the fountain of water elegantly triggered by a pressure-pad on the floor. This became as picturesque an attraction for visiting en masse as El Escorial and the tomb of Francisco Franco. The former is an ornate castle, commissioned by King Philip II, which houses the bodies of dozens of ex-monarchs. The latter is an overwhelmingly ornate cathedral, burrowed out of the rock by a huge slave labour force, which houses the body of the ex-Generalissimo.
Naturally, our half-term was filled for us with relentless Spanish lessons. These were enlivened by an exceptional relationship with our teacher, and the lively and often high-pitched bickering never failed to bring this day-to-day routine to life. It only occurred to us this had not been quite in the spirit we had thought when we attempted to give her a present as a reward for her magnificent effort with us and she pushed it back to us thinking we must be not entirely serious.
The departure from this luxurious land of 24-hour cafés and sociably realistic liquor hours did come as a shock as in a week many of us had in fact managed to persuade ourselves we could speak Spanish and our host families were often too kind to disabuse us. After this trip, our performance in Spanish exams would probably have been staggering, as our confidence would have dazzled even the most discerning examiner, but sadly none was waiting to be taken and our ability to articulate dwindled rapidly amongst homely surroundings.
David Odgers (Dryden's)
With less than a month until Oxford entrance exams and Cambridge interviews, this was not, of course, just a holiday. For the next two weeks we would be fed a hearty diet of Latin and Greek museums, complemented by a series of seminars - courtesy of Messrs Hobson and Bryant. Weaker souls might have quailed at such a prospect, but Westminster Classicists are made of strong stuff, and rose to the challenge with gusto: on many evenings Virgil and Thucydides provoked erudite discussions right into the night. It was only on returning home, however, that several individuals realised how useful 'seasickness' had been in justifying poor test marks.
But we were in Hycia, south-west Turkey, and it would have been churlish to devote the two weeks exclusively to the study of books. The sun shone, and the sea, implacably azure, still cherished some of its residual summer warmth. And as we travelled north from Gocet, hugging the contours of the Aegean coast, we could not ignore the relics of Hycia's former inhabitants - from the Greeks and Romans to the Arabs and Ottoman Turks. We visited the island of Gerniler, a Byzantine monastic colony which was abandoned in the seventh century with the Arab raids. A night's mooring in Fethiye took us to Tios, a settlement mentioned in Hittite records from the second millenium BC.
The rock tomb of Belleraphar lay crowned by a Turkish fort on the crumbling Acropolis, and the theatre, shaded by fig and walnut trees, was used as a playground for local children. The Roman remains of Lydae lay strewn across a sweeping valley. Marble blocks firmly embedded in the thin turf, two surviving mausoleums perched on the brow of the hill, exposed to the Anatolian winds. Cannus, by contrast, was a Carian settlement, once the greatness city in the region. It now lay deserted, the Roman theatre gazing out to a sea which, thanks to silt deposits, is slowly receding ever further behind an ocean of reeds. We sailed into Bodrum, ancient Halicarnassus, famous for its mausoleum and the medieval castle, once home to the Knights of St John. We explored the isthmus linking the Datça peninsula to the mainland; here one of our number managed to stumble upon the remnants of an ancient canal, built by the Cnidians to defend against invading Persian armies, and mentioned by Herodotus. Archaeologists and travellers searched in vain for the canal; it took an ancient historian of Jo Suddaby's calibre to fall into it.
But, major archaeological discoveries apart, the Westminster party was a self-confessed cultural desert; when you've seen one ancient site, you've seen them all. Effortlessly disproving claims that classicists are out of touch with the times, several of our number set about re-educating the locals. Bars were treated to the delights of jungle music, and the village youngsters were taught the principles of British football, in which there are no discernible rules, and the smallest child present is expected to collect the ball when it rolls off the quayside into the sea.
And throughout it all, the elderly locals would regard us inscrutably as they glanced round from mending their fishing nets, or looked up from backgammon boards. Outside the towns, this sense of bemusement pursued us. The age of neon has yet to arrive, and holiday-makers are still uncommon; the region's tourist industry is restricted to individual shacks beside the sites, each with a solitary shelf of tepid Pepsi Colas, and proprietors under no delusion as to the undesirable nature of their wares.
Admittedly, twenty one people on our 80-foot boat was a tight squeeze. But arguments over missing T-shirts (a common phenomenon) could not cloud the fact that the trip was essentially a restorative. It is a tribute to Andrew Hobson, Richard Bryant and the unfazeable Ann Tucker, College Matron, that when we sat out on the headland one evening, watching the sun disappear below the Aegean, we all did so with something resembling tranquillity.
Tom Welsford (Wren's)
We awoke the next day to blazing sunshine, superb views and a light dusting of snow - perfect! We made our way to Coir' a' Ghrunnda for a go at some of the more southerly peaks of the Cuillins. At the corrie we split into three groups - one aiming for the summits of Sgurr Dubh na Da Bheinn and Sgurr Dubh Mor, one to do some rock climbing on Caisteal a' Gharbh Choire and one to observe from the bottom. From the top of Caisteal a'Gharbh Choire, we could see that the Cuillin Ridge was very much 'in condition' being fairly dry and ice free; the Inaccessible Pinnacle would definitely head our list of targets for the week. That night, back at the Youth Hostel, we were joined by Damian Riddle who had swapped the minibus for a plane! After listening to his expert advice we agreed to have a go at the West Ridge of the Inaccessible Pinnacle, a v. diff. graded rock climb to the top of the hardest mountain in the British Isles. Greeted by another day of superb weather, we set off towards the IP early the next morning, suitably laden down with climbing protection gear. The party arrived at the foot of the Pinnacle in two instalments, the climbers first to set up the ropes, followed by the rest of the party led by a now rather scared Damian Riddle! He had forgotten to mention that he did not like very big drops on both sides of his feet. Adam Hunt (OW) ably led the climb, expertly assisted by Matthew Plummer's helpful cries of 'Look for the handholds'. Four of us reached the top and had our photos taken sitting on top of the boulder; what the photos do not show is the exposure. However, suitably comforted by a rather chuffed Mark Tocknell (his first, and long awaited ascent) we abseiled off the IP and set out along the ridge towards Sgurr na Banachdich, hoping to take in another peak that afternoon. However, fatigue overtook us so we attempted to descend by way of Coire na Banachdich. Finding ourselves trapped on rather icy slabs above cliffs we abseiled 80 feet into a gully and walked out, glad we had all our rock gear, minus the sling at the top! We arrived back at the youth hostel suitably pleased with ourselves, having made the first ascent of the Inaccessible Pinnacle on a School trip for many years.
Our target next morning was Sgurr Alasdair, the highest peak in the Cuillins. Nip up the Great Stone Shoot, bag the summit and nip back down; a short day, seven hours maximum, or so we thoughtÉ Arriving at the base of the Stone Shoot, we found it half filled with crap snow - begging your pardon. Hard ice covered with six inches of ball-bearing like powder. Going was extremely slow as we needed to cut a great many footsteps; higher up, the snow disappeared and the ice took over completely. We were all a little shaken when Rachel slid back down the final 100 feet, but once we established that she was quite unhurt we all arrived safely at the top of the gully. The views, I am sure, made the hard slog well worth it. Five of us then roped up and reached the summits of Sgurr Alasdair and Sgurr Thearlaich. Once regrouped, we started to think about getting back down again. Some of the party were unsure of themselves as it was their first time on steep snow and ice. The most viable method was a three pitch abseil down the steepest part - 450 feet of abseil and two belays on the way down - fun, but definitely time consuming. So much for the seven hour day; we arrived back at the Youth Hostel about thirteen hours after leaving it. Exhausted but exhilarated!
We were all knackered by Wednesday, so whilst a few hardy souls went up a mountain, the rest of us walked along the coast and did some rock climbing. This ended up being one of the scariest days as we were driven by Damian Riddle who had clearly forgotten how, but some kind person took the handbrake off for him after about 100 metres. Thursday brought grotty weather so we all travelled north to have a look at the weird and wonderful scenery of the Quirang. Amidst discussion of staging a performance of Wagner's Ring Cycle there (yer wot?) we also had the biggest snowball fight you would have thought possible with about three snowballs. Recycling at its best!
Friday was our last day on Skye so we split into two groups, one to attempt Sgurr nan Gillean and the other Sgurr na Banachdich. The weather was definitely changeable, but both parties reached their summits and descended without further excitement - apart from the icy slabs on Gillean, but that's another story for the grandchildren, so to speak!
Overall, the trip was one of the most successful for years, partly due to the weather and partly due to the company. Until next year!
Ben Linton (Grant's)