By the time the boys' bags were with them in the minivan and they were riding into the centre of the city everything was different. Gone was the capitalism and commercialism of England. Gone were the sights and noises of England. Even more strikingly, gone was English, the mother tongue of each of the five travellers. In Russia, the definition of common sense is different. It makes sense to drink lukewarm water because cold water makes you ill. People will remind you to stop whistling because if you whistle you will never have money. The Soviet Union was (together with the US) the strongest nation in the world and always would have been were it not for Gorbachev.
During their time in St Petersburg the boys had a chance to experience Russian culture while deepening their knowledge of the Russian language. The boys had a three hour lesson every day, while in the evening they visited art and cultural museums, cemeteries, operas, ballets, palaces and markets. In their free time in the evenings they had a chance to explore the city on their own until they dined with their host families. The boys are accommodated during the Russian trip with host families that have been selected by the tour agent. This provides an opportunity for the students to practise their spoken Russian in a domestic situation.
There is a lot to be learned by going to Russia, especially for a Russianist. The boys who went all enjoyed their time there while learning Russian both mimetically and didactically. Experiencing a culture firsthand is the best way to learn to appreciate it.
Fred Hodder (Rigaud's)
'Does anyone know where we are?' This remark sums up one of the main preoccupations of the camp. This was for the simple reason that the only one of us who had ever seen the Picos de Europa before was Martin Robinson, and even he not for some time. So in spite of inspired map work from nearly everyone (except me) it always took some time before we could say that the mountain we were climbing actually was Pena Vieja and not some other rocky mass that had inconsiderately got in our way.
Another very common remark had two variations on this most original theme; 'Andrew, how do you say...?' and 'Andrew, what's he saying?' Andrew Bartlett, interpreter and rock climbing expert for the expedition, was our only Spanish speaker and so naturally, at the slightest hint of language difficulties, the adventurous person who was attempting to explain or ask for something to the Spanish-speaking person on the other side of the counter would set up a cry for help to Andrew, who would immediately clear up the problem, with a few incomprehensible (at least to me) words.
Mark Tocknell, Martin Robinson and Bill Phillips came with us; I would like to thank them and Andrew for a wonderful holiday. Mark Tocknell led us all over the Picos, generally in the right direction. He even managed to restrain Martin Robinson from reaching the top several hours in front of the rest of the party. He accomplished this notable feat by putting us into order: he set the pace (termed by Andrew a funeral march) then came the slowest and Martin Robinson at the back. Bill Phillips was invaluable since even without speaking any Spanish he managed to provide what seemed an almost unlimited supply of superb nectarines and other food for picnics as well as quick and easy to cook meals.
The walking and climbing were idyllic: towering canyons, Promethean cliffs rearing to the sky. At one time when we were on a peak the clouds formed beneath us, and all that could be seen was a fluffy landscape of cloud with the tops of the mountains piercing it. Most of the mountains were around six to eight thousand feet, and even driving as high as we could we would still have a considerable ascent. In any case the minibus could not always cope. Once the gradient was so steep that the minibus ground to a halt and so after giving it an encouraging shove we walked after it, picking up the cutlery that was falling from the trailer. Of course we did do things apart from watching the view: airy chat, limericks and poems were exchanged and the Spanish mountains reverberated to the sound of hymns and a drinking version of 'Do-Re-Mi' sung both fortissimo and out of tune. Half way through the holiday we walked through the Cares Gorge, looking a hundred metres down sheer cliffs into a peaceful river which wound slowly through the canyon. We later saw that the river was peaceful because a canal had been drilled through the cliff to run parallel with the river. Edward Lynch-Bell thought that the ideal way to see the gorge would be drifting along this canal in an inner tube. The one trouble was we did not know where or how the ride would end - another day perhaps.
We went on a wild camp, walking into the Central Massif and camping by a spring that some resourceful farmer or hiker had channelled through an old broken coke bottle. The valley where we camped was about three or four thousand feet above sea level and extremely beautiful, with serpentine tracks which had been etched by a river and luxuriant grass sweeping up to a band of red bracken which in turn gave way to the rocky screes and towering cliffs of the mountains.
As well as the amazing walking and scrambling some special activities were organised. One day we could choose between riding or mountaineering. I chose riding. For five hours we rode over a mountain through spectacular scenery. When we dropped down to the lake, there was a horse box waiting. 'Brilliant', we thought, 'we're going to be driven home.' So all we needed to do was nurse our stiff muscles and wait for someone to pick us up. We sat down on the grass and waited. An hour later, when we were beginning to wonder where the car was, the guide came up to us and said the horses had rested long enough! The showers were crowded that night and supper was late!
Rock climbing was brilliant; starting with only mild climbs the rock became progressively harder as the day advanced, and at the end of it I was standing on a tiny protrusion from the rock face with one foot, with one of my hands in a little hole in the rock, and the other frantically groping for a hold just below the overhang that was the last part of the climb, and not quite reaching it. Naturally I fell.
We also went caving and were warned by Mark Tocknell, an experienced caver, that the caves would be muddy, cramped and dark. It was therefore a shock when we entered the first cave and found that he had only been right in one particular; the cave was dark. This darkness was easily banished by the acetylene torches that we wore and we were able to see the cave. It was huge, the first cavern was a hundred metres by a hundred and forty, and was filled with breathtaking stalactites and stalagmites. In the next cave there was a natural organ of translucent, shimmering pipes. These were hollow and when tapped gave out a note.
The second cave that we entered was different. We had to abseil down a hundred metres or so before getting to the bottom of the cave. My main worry was that if my light was burning, I was afraid of it searing through the rope, and if it was not, it was impossible to see and I would bash myself on the rock. Naturally, it went out half way down, so I dangled trying to get my lighter out of my pocket and terrified of letting go of the rock and falling. It turned out that I need not worry; my 'descender' had stuck and I could not fall, even if I wanted. The passages in this cave were very much more what Mark Tocknell had warned us about - muddy! The floor was magnificent, regular wave patterns made out of a reddish rock, huge red pillars ascending to the ceiling and mud.
After we had been caving Mark Tocknell happened to mention that if we had 'flu-like symptoms two to three weeks later, we should go to a doctor as it was possible that we had caught Weil's Disease. We said that we would remember this, not expecting anything to come of it. Unfortunately, twenty days later, swimming happily in the Saronic Gulf, 'flu-like symptoms attacked me. Oh dear.
Tom Balogh (Dryden's)