Day four - the big one! Part one

Just a normal Thursday morning really.

You wake up, very late.  You crawl to breakfast in your PJs, and smack down three or four bowls of frosties, a couple of plates of sausages beans and toast.

Then you get into a wet suit, head down the rickety stairs leading to the secluded beach, and indulge in a spot of body boarding, skim boarding, lifesaver games, and the sea trampoline.

Of course, we were going to go on the power boat, but the waves were too big.  Shame.

So instead, we decided that we would play on the trampoline for longer, do some more body boarding, then have a late lunch.

Once we've had a long lazy lunch, we're heading back down there.  Have a nice afternoon wherever you are.

For this morning, that is all.

Magic Moments- camp day three

This morning was one.  I woke at 6.38 (my normal school time) and again at 6.47 (the snooze alarm) before waking again ahead of any children at 7.15.  Yes, the shenanigans of morning 1 were isolated to then, and we all got a good night’s sleep.  We had to wake almost every child to get them ready for early breakfast. 

The thing about camp is that it’s filled with magical little moments that remind you why you do it in the first place.  They’re unhidden, spontaneous, unintentional, and utterly wonderful.  The children don’t know they’re creating anything special, they don’t actually know they’re being anything other than themselves, but then, isn’t that the point?

There’s something so deliciously human, and so incredibly beautiful about two or three beings working innocently and surreptitiously together to create a moment of sheer electricity.  To err is human, to do something super is surely superhuman.

(Of course, camp also brings un-magical moments.  This year’s thus far have included socks on the beach, canine phobia, smells relating to boys and a spider’s nest in the ladies loo.)

So, what have we seen? 

Unspoken but monumental bravery, on repeated occasions.

Year 6 boys (never knowingly sensitive) egging on a reluctant year 5 girl to “Give it a go! You’ll love it!”.  (You want to know now, don’t you.  She did it.  Twice.)

A quiet, diligent year 6 girl taking a lead and pushing a group towards success.

A year 5 and a year 6 – who would never ever have anything to do with each other – teasing each other playfully on the jetty, the one encouraging the other to jump.  She did.  He followed.  They laughed together in the water. I beamed with pride.

A brave year 5 gymnast joining in with teenagers on the beach, and teaching them a new trick or two.

Everyone joining in without asking to bury someone in the sand…at their own request.

A boy stood confidently astride a hand built raft, before launching himself headfirst into the lake.

A year 5 girl, never famed for her courage, offering up her paddle, before launching herself off the raft at the lake’s deepest point. (Neither one has seen or heard about the other)

The sheer determination of young children, normally shy and retiring, to push themselves to their limits.

The joy of achievement.

That’s why everyone remembers camp.  No-one remembers the bloke who runs the water sports or the lady at the archery.  No one remembers the food (which they should do here, it’s gorgeous and plentiful) and no-one remembers why they were so afraid in the first place.  People remember camp because it is packed with memories that have a highly important personal value.  They remember the first pen pal, the first time they stood on a surfboard, or flew down a zip wire, the first independent feeling of sheer exhilaration, that feeling that you achieved something you never thought possible. They remember that amazing feeling you couldn’t possibly hope to experience at home on 11.40 on a Wednesday morning.

In short, people remember the magic.

And I shall confess I had forgotten.  I still remember my year 6 camp (a smelly muddy hole somewhere outside Birmingham – Coventry, I think it was called), and those memories just about remain. Yet I have been blessed with a new set of memories, a new store of magic for every time I have put myself forward for camp as an adult.  When I saw that boy astride the raft today I watched in awe, and the magic returned.  Despite the fact I was in the lake, I soared high above it, watching this amazing personal success, privileged to be party to this wondrous revelation, a reveller at the Glastonbury of myths (album by Brooke Swift versus the Bad Hatters).  Suddenly, the magic was all around me, and I realised I’d been sat in the midst of it all week. 

So, has all of this affected my momentous decision?  I am happy to admit that today my faith has wavered, my resolved tested.  But this isn’t my blog, this is magic’s blog, and a happy celebration of how lucky I find myself to be able to create the circumstances that allow such wander to flow.  Therefore, earlier than we have done so far this week, I am contented to say – with enormous expectation of what magic we may weave tomorrow – that is all.

For all the parents out there, let me summarise it more literally: today we have asked your children to negotiate a low rope assault course that almost wrecked their hands, then climb into a tree and hurl themselves off a platform along a 120 foot zip wire.  Then, after lunch, we asked them to build a raft out of barrels and planks, then ride it around a lake.  Simples.  Just for fun, we then spent an hour launching them off the jetty into the lake.  Then ate too much pizza.  Then went the beach.  That isn’t all…

Nick name or band name? Camp, day two

Due to the monumental feats of strength of character, camp is a hallowed place where legends are made.  The fables of mythological greatness that we shall pass down to our young ones are forged in the smithy that is camp.  As early as day two, true history is made.  When it is made, it has bestowed upon it the greatest honour any camper can bestow upon another – a nickname.

Some children already had subtitles and alter egos as they launched into this camp; who can fail to have heard my liberal use of the K-monster and Brucy-Baby monikers within our usual corridors of power?  Yet some wait for their moment of unsought destiny to have their own label thrust upon their eternal memory.

Today has been such a day.  Under a sun sent to torture and with weapons and tools hitherto unseen, we have fashioned our own brand of victory from the absent clouds of despair.  Your task now is to define the true nicknames from band names my weird subconscious has formulated of its own despicable accord.

So, if I tell you that today has been spent rifle shooting, at archery and beach barbecuing / swimming, and a bonus session of beach gymnastics with a group of locasls, it will come as no surprise that we found someone renamed “Robin Hood”, after his first fledgling attempts with the yew.   (It was Gary.  You know, Mr “I’ve-never-done-this-before-so-I’ll-just-stick-it-in-the-dead-centre-of-that-targety-thing”?)

So here we go, simply answer ‘nickname’ or ‘band name’.  Answers, of a sort, below.

1.       Brooke Swift and the Golden Target

2.       Mister Fifty

3.       Brooke Swift versus the Bad Hatter

4.       Dead eyed Wombat

5.       Flapjacks and clotted cream

6.       Bubblebottom

7.       The Incredible Case of the Tiger Fighter

8.       Whisper or silence

9.       The Penance fulfilling Six

With more fear than key stage 2 threshold levels, your points to 19 (where did they get that from?!?) this week are:

1:  Nickname, attributed after the aforementioned Brooke casually stepped up as the last archer in the team competition and scored the winning gold.

2: Nickname, attributed to Bruce for his average score with 5 bullets.

3: Bandname, or potential episode to the new Harry Potter series.  Made up after an archery shoot-out between Brooke and Shelby, where both amassed 20+points.

4: Nickname, attributed to Kessie as she continued to score consistently well in rifle shooting, then archery.  Just the odd 25 here and there.

5: Neither.  Than was my pudding at lunch, and it was lush.

6: Nickname, attributed to … oh I couldn’t possibly say.

7: Nickname, attributed to Kile.  Many will see his cuts as a gentle scrape against some rocks in the pools yesterday.  But we know different.  After a terrifying escape from Paignton Zoo, many animals threatened the public at large.  Our Kile, too shy to mention it, came out the hero. Honest, ask him.

8: Bandname, and one I rather like. But it’s also what we’ve been offering as a choice for the last few awake.

9: Nickname, attributed to a group of boys who had better NOT be doing that again.

Due to this morning’s 5:06 am start, yesterday’s blog now seems as if it were written in the mists of time.  However, a long long day never prohibits an ultimately successful one, which – with the exception of one of two noses getting redder – is exactly what we have had.  Therefore, with much much happiness in my heart, much weariness in my bones and no alteration to my BIG decision as yet, I am happy to say that is all.

Day One - Orcombe coastal road strikes back

So, first day down.  What have we learned?

Coach drivers who at first appear humble may well have the slogan “speed demon” emblazoned somewhere upon their vehicle.

That the joy of finding a crab is still mesmeric, even when you thought it would be horrible.

That 3G is as unreliable up here as anywhere else (sorry for the late messages Miss Andrews).

That no-one, absolutely no-one, likes the zig-zags.  Still.  Ever.

That we have some fine swimming costume-age this year, and some oven more fine one-sies.

Sometimes, even factor 50 is not enough.  However, a cold shower and a bag of peas can always be relied upon.

Seaweed, apparently, is slippy.

Generally, a positive and successful first day with loads of fun, loads of grub and lots of giggles and cuddles, and more than just a smear of sun cream.  

May something higher than David Bowie have mercy on our souls tomorrow (dull day tomorrow  Bacon and egg brekkie, archery, rifle shooting, beach barbecue, more time in beautiful Exmouth – or, as one child calls it, “Heaven”).

For day one, that is all.

Will he do it?

Every year I mumble this promise to myself under my breath. In this week of every year I make my honorable oath to remain true to what I say in ... this week of every year.  I silently swear that it will happen, and try with all my eyes-closed-tight might to bring it about.  I see the words loom large in my mind's eye, and use this image to build their strength and meaning.   I don't let anyone hear it until I have built up my own conviction.  Parts of me hear it though; my knees hear it and high five one another; my feet hear it and dance - of their own accord - in silent joy to the theme of the Hallelujah Chorus, and my back groans and creaks a yell of apoplectic whimsy.

Once I have a little more confidence, I start to rehearse saying it to others.  I even develop something of a self pitying grimace to accompany the phrase in the hope they will take it more seriously.  I start by sharing it with family members, who, much as they do throughout the twelve month, ignore me with unadulterated disdain.

So I try it out on friends and neighbours, who know me not enough to gauge my levels of seriousness.

Then I try it out on colleagues and children as if they may proffer just a note of interest.  I clasp my hands together, and look not enormously dissimilar to Richard III - auditionees, keen to impress my earnestness.

Yet none of them seem to register my honour.

Perhaps the words seem feeble, or non-commital, but I do not see how their meaning can be lost.  Yet, as I say the words with passion and conviction, none seem to believe me.

So, this time I must compose myself.

Take a breath.

Believe in the power of what I have to say.

Know that I am right.

Never falter from the virtue of my cause, as I say out loud:

"This will be my last camp!"

There.  I've said it.  It's out there.  Couldn't take it back even if I wanted to.

I'm sorry...what?

What was that?  You don't believe it?  You think I'm making it up?  How can you think that?

Oh, I see.  Apparently I said it last year, and then after water sports day told everyone to ignore me.  Is that right?  And the year before that after I got all those kids to the top of the climbing wall.  And you think I'll do it again.

Well, we'll see about that.

You just tune into the blogs every night next week from Exmouth camp and we'll see who's right, shall we.

So there.

That is all, until next week.........