France 1947

The most surprising item in Ian’s papers, are his letters to his parents from the school trip.  Now in that time of austerity, it would be reasonable to assume that this might have been a day out in a coach to Canvey Island, Southend or Brighton.

But not so.

The school trip in 1947 was an adventure to France.  This is how it was described by E. Taylor in the 1947 edition of The Magazine of Minchenden School.

Paris and Provence or the Seventh Heaven

Was it Stevenson who said, “It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive”? Perhaps it was because he was only on his donkey, but the party of twenty-one Minchendenians who, on July 16th, left for a fortnight’s or a month’s holiday in France, certainly knew both what it was to travel hopefully and to arrive.

Pages could be written about the journey: the pride we took in flourishing our passports; our struggles with heavy luggage, and our terror of sea-sickness; the encounter with the engines and with the engineer who answered tentative French remarks in a stream of broad Scotch; the first glimpse we had of Dieppe, whilst waiting in a long queue on the quay to go through Customs: Dieppe with its battered buildings, blue-suited porters, the woman Customs official sporting a Tricolour, and the ragged children down to welcome the daily English boat; then the train with the wooden seats, when we discovered the true significance of “monter dans un train”; the French countryside, with houses, shuttered against the sun, having a lifeless appearance; a glimpse of La Tour Eiffel, and Paris at last. Some of us had arrived at our destination. For the other sixteen, images became concrete as we rapidly passed the Medeleine, the Louvre, the Champs-Elysées, with a distant view of the Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, Notre Dame, and Assemblée Nationale (late Chambre des Députés) and arrived at the Gare de Lyon. A crowded but comfortable journey brought us to Marseilles and the Mediterranean in the morning.

We all had photos of our correspondents, but very few, on either side, were recognised. But the anxious moments soon passed, and each, with her hostess, set off for her new home, dazed by French “tel qu’on le parle en France,” heads splitting with the desire to express thoughts for which we had but a few stuttered words – the railway track must have been strewn with our beautifully rehearsed speeches. Understanding came later, slowly but surely.

Paris, Aix en Provence, Port de Bouc, Sanary su Mer, Brignoles, Le Drammont, Lambesc, La Mède, Sisteron, Nîmes, Fayence, Fréjus – that’s where we were, get out a map and see for yourselves. Paris, the capital of our dreams; Aix, the ancient capital of Provence; the Mediterranean with its red rocks, more blue than you can possibly imagine; remote valleys of the Basses Alpes – these were our homes.

From our new families what kindness we received. Their every effort was to make us feel happy and at home – their chief way of doing this was on the principle that “the way to man’s heart is through his stomach,” “Bon appétit, il faut bien manger!” olives, peaches, bananas, apricots, melons, grapes and wine; biftecks, chicken, bouillabaisse, and cheese that bear no resemblance to our weekly ration; saucisson, artichauts, escalopes de veau, pigeons, and, of course, soup every night, cream cakes, omelettes made with real eggs. All this but we’ll have pity on you!

Perhaps some of us found it difficult to dine at 8 or 9 p.m., and to push our way round our plates with a fork alone; perhaps we sometiems forgot to put our glass four inches to the left of its English stance, and to get through a meal with one fork and two plates; but it was lovely to help oneself and not be served, and to be allowed to mop one’s plate with a piece of bread.

It is difficult to imagine, as we creep “like snail, unwillingly to school” each morning, that we once stepped from our bedrooms into the Mediterranean to bathe, or basked in the sun at Porquerolles; that we met, not Monte Cristo, but half Minchenden, on the stairs or in the dungeons of the Château d’If; that we danced on the bridge at Avignon or went down into a vineyard to pick peaches from trees growing amongst the vines, or cruisedby the shores of the world’s bluest sea; that we danced at Digne, at the Fête de la Lavande, or all night at Montmartre, or craned our necks in awe at Notre Dame or the Sacré Coeur, or sat in a box at the Opéra, or sauntered with the spirit of Louis XIV at Versailles.

As we think of it now, we wonder whether London, with its history, its Thames and its soot, could provide our French friends with so many delightful memories. they say that they loved our school dinners, and our discipline in trains and bus queues, the easy life we lead at school, and as you would expect, the English policemen.

To them and their parents, who gave us this wonderful holiday; to Madame Burgess of Aix, and Mademoiselle Soysié of Paris, who found families for us; to Miss Smith and Miss Owers who took us there, and to Carol Claxton who smoothed the way in Paris by getting tickets and transport, we all owe a deep debt of gratitude. It has been, for us all, an unforgettable experience.

I have reproduced this exactly as it was written, except for one classic printers’ pie, where a g and h were juxtaposed.

Who was E. Taylor?  

Minchenden was a mixed school and there is no clue as to whether they were male or female.  The only person in the article that I knew, was Miss Smith, who was one of the language teachers.  She was Senior Mistress, when I left Minchenden and retired at the same time.