Thus a group of Westminsters found themselves in the city of Granada, set in the balmy South of Spain, in March 1998. On arrival we were all despatched to our respective families - the four of us squashed into the rear of our senora's car fully prepared for a long journey to the edge of the city, only to find we had gone around the absurd ring road and were only a few streets away from where we had begun. Certainly there were many differing experiences with the host families - never before had I seen or realised the previously unapparent versatility of tinned tomatoes!
Of course, part of the point of being there was the language and I'm sure our own mumblings were much enhanced rather more by the lessons - the teachers certainly enjoyed our jocular company. We also attended a class of sevillanas (Flamenco), a tradition that originates from this part of Spain, at the school - which turned out to be highly amusing. Diligent and committed as ever, it has to be reluctantly admitted, it was the girls who triumphed in tackling the complicated footwork employed in the dance, despite the encouragement from the sidelines!
There was plenty of time on this trip to explore and wander the streets of Granada, which has a distinctly Moorish air to it, with the old Arab quarter, the Albaic’n, with its narrow cobbled streets, and the Alhambra fortress crowning the city. The exotic elegance of the Palace, to where we trudged on the first day, is a striking legacy of this strong element in Spanish culture brought to the country with the years of Moorish occupation which ended in 1492. The fortress boasts the 13th century military camp or Alcazaba, beautifully decorated palace courtyards and gardens of the Generalife. Not only did we become well acquainted with the cafe-dominated squares of Granada, where we spent many an hour chewing churros y chocolate when many a sane Spaniard had packed up and gone home for the afternoon, but also the varied nightlife including the Arab teterias (tea houses) - not to mention the interesting inhabitants - of the Albaic’n. You could order anything from mint or mixed flower to aphrodisiac teas, the mention of which, perhaps disconcertingly, made the waitress turn away with a sly knowing smile.
We also took a trip down to the coast which was really well planned as here were these white-skinned British tourists on the beach with no sun, no Spaniards (always a bad sign!) and certainly no Costa Tropical! We enjoyed an amusing (if not professional) football match on a hard court, and some even braved it into the water - sane - but, alas, not a lot of bronze.
So it was that we made our way home armed with tinned squid, local confiser’a, not to mention the huge, blue (albeit) Mexican hats!
Edward Randall (Rigaud's)
Nevertheless, this contemptuous dismissal is hardly the heroes' welcome that the blood spattered and exhausted Lyke Wake Walker expects on his return - and, all appearances to the contrary, he/she is human and verging on sane.
The following account has been dredged out of some of the farthest corners of the 'severe trauma' department of our memories, was collated under extreme duress, and we take absolutely no responsibility whatsoever for the seemingly wild and improbable allegations made therein.
'....after a cheery send-off from those members of staff happening to be travelling in the somewhat ill-fated minibus, we left behind that great and hallowed centre of civilisation, Osmotherly (public lavatories of an award-winning calibre, and an improbably crowded chip shop). Recovering our bearings after an early, unplanned detour 500 yards from the start, we returned to the cross-roads on the outskirts of the village, and took the other fork. The next few hours were filled with steady progress, diligent map-reading and ebullient shouts of support to the other groups who kept striding purposefully past us and into the distance. We checked our bearings by the light of a random telephone box, continued up the road, and started to climb....
Hills. One must ascend, and then descend, and then, all too frequently, one must ascend once more. Two hours of deeply worrying parrot-jokes later, we stumbled down a rock-laden precipice into the welcoming arms of Mark Tocknell. Never have six 'young people' been so glad to see such a benign, benevolent and generally father-like figure loom from the mists, bearing tea and the heartening reassurance that only 36 miles were left. Warned to 'keep moving or you'll lose body parts', the second section passed with remarkable speed. A large fraction of the group caught up on lost sleep, their legs still moving by instinct, whilst the others followed the dimly bobbing torches of the rowers jogging in front.
A splendid, rosy-fingered dawn heralded the start of a day of personally challenging circumstances and the speedy descent of those who stopped to admire it into the bog. The spreading light revealed the small mini-bus camp and the clear morning air carried the aroma of gently frying sausages across the marsh-filled valley that separated us from them. By the time we arrived, all the other groups had left, the tea was cold, and the sausages had congealed into almost College Hall standard black, formerly organic material.
It was a day of flat, featureless, desolate moor, rather reminiscent of how the surface of the earth might look the morning after the apocalypse. Swathes of anonymous heather closed in on all sides. Occasionally some exciting novelty would enter our fog-bound world - a cairn here, a standing stone there, and on one very memorable occasion we could have sworn a grouse-butt drifted past us in the mist. Trigonometrical miscalculations aside, we sighted the remaining minibus through the mist, only to realise repeatedly that it was a large rock or sheep. Finally registering that large rocks generally don't wave cheese sandwiches, we identified Mark Tocknell. A short luncheon, and we were onto the last lap, feet throbbing limbs aching, post-prandial bursts of enthusiasm waning rapidly ... and the amazing restraint showed by the rest of the group on the observation by one member that 'we'd get there in nine hours if we walked fast'.
The combined sarcasm of geography, meteorology and the Ministry of Defence were much in evidence during those nine hours, as we came upon lively streams, banks of fog and large unidentified radio-communication devices. On one occasion the redoubtable Yorkshire locals proved their legendary hospitality by chasing one member of our party away with pointed sticks. Stumbling on into the ever-approaching dusk, both nature and humanity added the final ironic twist to our trek by the sudden appearance of a ravine and the fact that the radio-mast, which was supposed to be our guiding beacon during the last few kilometres, wasn't on. The Head Master, sallying forth from the dark with words of encouragement ten yards from the end, spurred us onwards, collapsing over the finishing line into the suddenly immensely appealing interior of the school minibus, where we eased off our boots only to discover that large amounts of our feet had become inseparable from our socks....'
Thus ended the Lyke Wake Walk. Never has the well-known quote, 'I am going for a short walk and may be some time' rung truer.
Catherine Totty (Purcell's)