Distance Learning

Steve Brazier

 

German has an undeserved reputation for being cumbersome and long-winded. In fact, a translation into good German should normally contain fewer words than the English. There is, for example, no English equivalent of Fernweh. which means a longing to get away or to be elsewhere. Its near-opposite, Heimweh translates more succinctly: home-sickness. As a child, I was plagued by a more tangible and debilitating affliction: travel-sickness, which may explain my teenage reluctance to being away from the security of home, even for one night. But adolescence brought changes and some changes were more subtle than others.

My family had recently moved house and my only friends were now those at school. Dreadfully bored in the holidays and eager to avoid a lonely Easter, my fear of going away was suppressed when our Physics mistress asked if any of us would like to join a Wednesfield Grammar School trip to the Rhineland.

You may recall her: she was a good teacher, if rather fierce. New to the school, she introduced herself to my O level class. The first pupil to address her used the customary "Miss" only to be subjected to the following exchange:

Teacher (sharply) "Did you say Miss ? How would you address Mr. Langford ?"

Pupil (hesitantly)"Sir, Miss"

Teacher (irritated) "I am married, so how should you address me ?"

Pupil (incredulous) "Madam ?"

Teacher "Exactly"

Thereafter we nick-named her Madam. In addressing her I tried hard to avoid saying either "Madam" or (more difficult) "Miss". You will not be surprised to hear that I have forgotten her surname.

My new step-father generously paid my fare and we travelled by coach to Dover. I got through the road trip without being ill but the ferry proved more of a challenge. An early start had prompted someone to order bacon and egg for us when we boarded. The sea was rough and before we had left Dover Harbour, glasses were sliding to the deck from the shelving in the bar. I could not face food and spent a miserable few hours in the wind and rain on deck rueing my decision to go away from home. At Ostend, I fell over on the dock with my huge suitcase, tore my brand new trousers and learned quickly that it is better to travel scruffy and light. The onward journey was by train. The highlight was the entrance into our compartment of a Belgian customs official, resplendent in red, blue and gold. He demanded something from Madam, rather posh and daunting in her tweed suit. She retorted loudly "We are BRITISH !" until he went away. That night my bed in our Bad Godesberg hotel rolled like the English Channel.

The rest of the stay was great fun. I will not catalogue our antics but we got away with most of them and Madam was quite lenient when we didn't. I now had a positive experience to set against my aversion to going away. The return journey must have been fine too because I can remember only one incident. At Dover a large red-bearded Customs Officer who looked like James Robertson-Justice terrified a quaking First-Year as he scanned his list of purchases abroad:

Officer (very sternly) "Oh! Bought a mouth-organ in Germany have we?"

Boy (quaking) "Y-e-e-e-s"

Officer (after dramatic pause) "Do you know how to play it?

Other boys with flick-knives in their shoes breathed sighs of relief.

Having always wanted to be a soldier and bored with A-levels, I joined the Territorial Army as soon as I was eighteen. The drill hall, you may recall, was on Devon Road at the far end of our school field. Every summer the regimental training camp took place near Hamburg. Apart from my anxiety about being away from home for two weeks, I was horrified by the men's sordid tales of wine, women and ......still more women on the Reeperbahn. Using my A level studies as an excuse, I got permission not to go.

The T.A. bought my first provisional driving licence. My first lesson was in a Ferret armoured car. The instructor sat above me in the turret, the steering wheel lay horizontally under a bulkhead and I peered through a hatch. Somehow avoiding a small boy on a bicycle, I set off on the road around West Park. They hauled me out after one erratic circuit. Subsequent lessons were in a Land Rover and 1-Ton Truck. This was 1964, the Cold War was heating up and it was rumoured that in the event of a nuclear attack, we were to do anti-looting patrols in Bridgnorth. Had I been driving, we would not have got there.

Sixth form Geography meant a week's field trip to East Yorkshire. On the way, I discovered that community singing on the bus can hold travel-sickness at bay. We learned that you could do a village-study in an hour by interrogating the post-mistress. Land-use surveys conducted from the highest point around produced at least 60% accuracy saved hours of walking about and no one was checking-up. Waiting for rural buses was not as quick or as cheap as hitch-hiking on farm vehicles. With imagination, most of the day could be spent skimming stones and messing about. In the evenings we had feedback from each group on their day in the field. Anyone considering a career in creative writing or politics would have picked up more here than they learned about geography.

The Youth Hostel where we stayed was in Malton in the Vale of Pickering. Although actor and Goon Peter Sellers had had a near-fatal heart attack that week, the headlines in the local paper hinted at its isolation:"Local Man Breaks Leg".

I enjoyed myself so much that I took one of the spare places on the following year's Lower Sixth field-trip to Cumbria. Here we stayed in a succession of hostels one of them so abominable it was later closed down. We had to climb Scafell Pike one day and I only reached the summit to avoid losing face with the girls in the party. Despite the hardships, the experience instilled in me a desire to return and years later I acquired a real passion for the Lake District. I have now climbed most of its peaks though the intricacies of its geology still elude me.

In those days, uncles and aunts constantly asked what I had in mind for a career. The Territorial Army had cured my military ambitions so, Impressed by the E-type Jaguars outside architectural practices on Tettenhall Road, I would reply that I was going to be an architect. I thought that mainly involved drawing and I liked Art so I chose to do it at A level. Eager to remain living at home, I thought I could study architecture at the Art College in Wolverhampton. My mother arranged for me to see Mr. Wright, the Principal. He soon brought me down to earth, to be an architect I would have to go to university or night-school in Birmingham. My brother had cycled in all weathers for years to Wednesbury Tech. I did not fancy night-school. And Birmingham was twice the distance, so I sent for university prospectuses. With weeks to go to the application deadline I asked to see Mr. Douel as my A levels did not appear to match the entry requirements. He reached for a large book, blue I recall. "You're right" he said. "Could you do A level Maths in six months?" He already knew the answer to that. This set-back made me realise that going away to university had become more important than what I did when I got there. So, wondering why the blue book had not been consulted earlier, I applied to do Geography. Looking back now, something had suddenly happened to counter my aversion to being away from home. With greater self-confidence and a yen for independence, I applied only to distant universities. And I failed A level Art.

In my first year at University College London, the sixth-form experience served me well during a field-week in the Forest of Dean. I had discovered still more surveying short-cuts by the second-year field-week in Jersey, where we helped with the national Land Use Survey but most of the time had a riotous holiday in a good hotel with very cheap hire cars, cigarettes and alcohol. If you ever consult the 1967 Land-Use Survey sheet for Jersey, you might bear that in mind.

At 19 I spent three hilarious weeks in the back of a Wolseley 1500 on a round-trip to Italy with three former WMGS school-mates. Clearly something dramatic had happened to both my car-sickness and aversion to being away from home. Sic transit nausea.

I read recently that leaving home for the first time is the psychological equivalent of a second birth. My tentative excursions with the school had not only demonstrated the benefits of travel they had boosted my confidence and self-reliance. After leaving home for university, I never lived permanently in Wolverhampton again, have travelled widely and even worked briefly abroad.

Today, my aversion to travel is back. Impaired eyesight stopped me driving over 20 years ago. Car-sickness returns now and then. Growing intolerance of today's congested and commercialised travel "experience" underlies my re-awakened preference for the predictability of home. Irritating security-procedures may be necessary but waiting for hours in airports is stressful and worrying about delayed flights and traffic-jams makes me feel powerless. The self-confidence which developed in my youth and led me to discover the pleasure and stimulation of travel is ebbing away. I can no longer translate Wanderlust into action.

Steve Brazier (1958-1965)