School trip memories

Here are mine. What are yours?

The loot from my first school trip to France in 1973 when I was twelve: a carton of 20 packs of Player’s No.6 cigarettes for my dad that I’d bought on the ferry, and a bottle of Benedictine liqueur for mum, purchased on a tour of the distillery, where we were allowed to taste the 40% brew. I’m not sure how I got those through customs, because even then, there were some rules for minors, but pfff, nobody cared. We were all at it.

We were instructed to keep a diary, because our parents would want to know all about our travels when we got home. I couldn’t have rung them while I was away, even if I’d wanted to. They didn’t have a phone until I was fifteen. I sent them a postcard (carte postale) to let them know we’d arrived safely.

The point was to be immersed in the French way of life and to improve our fluency. Did we achieve that? Judge for yourself. (Eat your heart out, Adrian Mole…)

1973 France diary, Etretat

Day One, Yorkshire to London

Travelled to London on coach. Shabby hotel with scaffolding up. Opposite, a posh hotel.

Went to see fountains in Hyde Park, then had a meal in the Go-Go Grill. Caught the tube to Trafalgar Square. Sat on one of the lions.

Went to Buckingham Palace, the Queen was at home. Walked up Whitehall, saw Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and Downing Street.

Day Two, London to Etretat

Had breakfast.

Three cases missing (not mine). Teacher called police.

Went to Paddington Station, caught train. Got off at Victoria. Caught train for Newhaven. At Newhaven got on boat. Had dinner on boat.

Arrived at France (Dieppe). Got on coach.

Arrived at hotel. Had evening meal (meat, tatoes, soup, yoghurt, mineral water).

Went for walk, went to bed.

Day Three, Etretat

Got up, had breakfast (bowl of coffee, crusty bread, butter, jam).¹

Went to buy stamps and postcards. Went to beach to write them.

Went back to hotel for lunch (déjeuner). Tatoes, fish, mineral water, bread, apple.

Went to beach to swim. Lots of jellyfish. Did not get in very far.

Day Four

Woke up, had breakfast (same as yesterday). Went to beach, had a swim and sunbathe (no jellyfish). Got more sunburnt.

Went for lunch (tatoes, chicken, peas, carrots, mineral water, bread, banana).

Went back on beach, got even more sunburnt. Did not swim very much.

Bought Curly Wurly (50 centimes).

Went for dinner (not very well-cooked eggs and awful spaghetti stuff, bread, mineral water, soup and vanilla mousse thing).

Went to play a game on beach.

Sat on wall by tables surrounded by glass.

Some people at table singing Ilkley Moor ’Bah’t ’At. Joined in.

At the end, a man asked if we were English. We said yes.

He came round the glass panels and said: “Would you like a Coca Cola?”

There were about six of us. We all went round and had a drink.

All rest of our party stared at us through panels with jealousy.

We were introduced to conductor of Hallé Orchestra².

All others came in for drink. We were told the history of Etretat. There is supposed to be treasure hidden in the cliff.

Day Five

Woke up, had breakfast. Went to Rouen. Saw where Joan of Arc was burned.

Went for lunch.

Shopped. Bought doll, after shave and scent.

Went back to hotel for dinner. Went to bed.

Day Six

Went to Fécamp. Saw where wine was made. Bought Benedictine wine, sweets and keyring.

Had dinner.

Played shopping game.

Day Seven

Went to ceremony of Blessing of the Sea. Looked round stalls.

Had dinner. Gorgeous chicken, tatoes, soup, chocolate thing and WINE.

Presented Madam with flowers.

Sang an awful Ilkley Moor ’Bah’t ’At and went to bed.

My parents weren’t much interested in my travel diary (which I’d mostly written on the return ferry). I had acquired some French tastes, though, expressing disappointment that we only had Camp Coffee (chicory essence) at home, rather than the real stuff. We upgraded to Mellow Birds.

1975: Annecy, France

For the second school trip in 1975, we flew to Annecy. It was the first time I’d been on a plane (très exotique!). Stand-out memories? Once again, the caffeine and sugar high from the café au lait served in big bowls at breakfast alongside crunchy bread and apricot jam. And swimming, this time in the open air pool and the lake. I felt lumpen in my bikini, next to the willowy French girls, though I must have been a size 8 at the time.

My best friend claimed to have fallen in love with our 17-year old waiter (we were 14). One night we were allowed to go out with the other school group in our hotel, from London. They were worldly wise and drank beer. We were under strict instructions not to.

Fuzzy photographic evidence of me throwing a snowball on Mont Blanc emerged about six months after the event, when I remembered to take the roll of film to Boots. That is my single memento. Not even a travel journal to show for it.

I eventually scraped a C in O-Level French.

Allow me to share a teeny snippet from one of my favourite Simpsons episodes which resonates, in which Bart goes on a French exchange and tries asking a gendarme for help.

By the time my daughters were at secondary school, communications were moving on. There was a “phone tree” for letting us know they’d arrived safely (school tells three parents who tell three other parents, and so on).

Otherwise, getting a phone call during the trip was NOT a good thing.

Diary, 13 February 2002

Just had the dreaded phone call from school – O is in Zell am See hospital with concussion – bashed her head when she crashed going over a ski jump.

Feel very stirred up. I’ve spoken to her on the phone and she is groggy.

All she remembers of today’s skiing is a “white flash”.

Fortunately, there was no lasting damage and she was able to join in with the final morning of skiing.

Later that year, we hosted two Kyrgyzstan girls as part of a cultural scheme at my daughters’ school for three weeks. What to expect? Would our lifestyle seem gluttonous compared to theirs? All I knew about the Kyrgyz was that they’re reputed to be good equestrians and play a rough form of polo using the carcass of a goat as the ball.

They turned out to be delightful house guests and were wonderful with my baby son.

The biggest culture shock was when they asked for dusters. My daughters were uncomprehending. “Dusters?” They thought they’d misheard, but our guests pointed to the word in the dictionary. They explained that at home they always cleaned the house on a Saturday.

I rummaged under the sink and found one grimy duster, plus an old tea towel. They set to work, lifting years’ worth of grime from some surfaces. They tidied shelves and put our books back in order. Never have I felt such a slob. I made a mental note to give my daughters more chores.

Next day, they made us a traditional salad (shakarob) with tomatoes and onions.

They marvelled at my potato peeler and asked where they could buy them to take home to their mothers.

They were surprised that we didn’t have mountains in the south of England, and were fascinated by the royal family and the thought that they might meet a prince.

Trips included Osborne House (Queen Victoria’s seaside home) and Cineworld to see Spiderman. They’d never been to a cinema before. But by the final weekend, when we had a party for the Kyrgz and my daughters’ schoolfriends, the two groups of teens didn’t seem so very different from each other.

2012

By the time my son went on his first school residential trip to Wales in 2012, phones were still not allowed, but within 24 hours I’d received a text from school saying the class blog was now updated. The brief itinerary I’d been given was brought to life, with tales of wellies lost in mud, four-mile walks, and beach-combing. Everyone was, apparently, eating well.

Parents could leave comments, though I resisted adding a message. I remembered the precarious but character-forming sense of distance from my own school trips. That thrilling vacuum, during which there was no news to or from home, apart from a single outbound postcard. I didn’t want to break the spell.

Mentioning to my adult children that I’m writing about school trips, they revealed more about their own. A snarky teacher once pretending to the class that my son was in trouble with the police because he’d made a ski lift wobble. (Ha. Good joke, Sir.) Possibly spiked drinks. Nearly missing a coach because someone couldn’t run in flip flops. Stories I’ve not heard before, just as it should be.

As an adult, the closest I’ve got to recreating the vibe is going on tour with the choir, which I described in my piece, Like A School Trip On Steroids.

As I write this, my daughters ping me photos of what my grandchildren are up to, on our WhatsApp family chat. They are all on Easter trips to see their paternal grandparents. Here’s the three year-old wearing flippers and his wetsuit, braving the April sea in Cornwall. The two-year old in Vienna, sipping her babyccino. The other two in Morocco, thrilled to see a crocodile park, lemon trees, and turtles in ponds.

Of course I love seeing these snippets of their adventures in real time. I am compromised! I am conflicted!

Over to you. Did you go on any memorable school trips? How much do you feel children should be connected to home while they’re away? As always, I love to hear your thoughts, so please do comment if you’re able.

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Sarah Crowder

commented: “One thing that has struck me when watching or reading documentaries about male artists (including writers) is how many of them had wives doing all of the labour around the house for them, bringing them sandwiches even so they didn't have to step away from their canvas/sculpture/typewriter. I'm sure they must exist, but I've never heard of the male partner of a female artist taking on this role for them.”

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© Wendy Varley 2025

1. A revelation after my usual bowl of Cornflakes.

2. John Barbarolli