I was a pupil from autumn 1950 to summer 1958. And now I am 83 and the memories are fading, and only sometimes supported by evidence.

One such is a photograph (shown above) taken by a photographer from the Nottingham Evening Post outside the Council House in the City Centre, commemorating the departure of a group of us to Chatsworth, where we were to participate in, I think, some sort of Jamboree. I seem to remember that it had an international context. I am at the back of the car, accidentally pulling open a kit-bag, which spilled some of its contents at the moment when the picture was taken! (For this reason I have never been sure that the picture was published in the paper.) 

The others are all Scouts, but I only remember my great mate Pete Davies (being pushed into the back seat of the car). I don't rememebr who is above Peter but the adult is his Dad.

My other best memories were of camping (no photographs, I’m afraid), both in the Lake District. The first was near Windermere, where we arrived to find that British Rail had failed to deliver our tent poles. Our first evening was spent making new ones from young trees, latterly accompanied by very heavy rain, which continued for several days. My low spot (as a patrol leader, I believe) was our contribution to Sunday lunch: about a square inch of well-cooked meat, all that was left of the joint, after our patiently constructed tin oven had melted from excessive heat from the surrounding firewood.

But overall, sprits were remarkably high, Once or twice our walks were accompanied by raucous singing, often based on Lonnie Donegan’s recent big hit, Lost John.

The other camp was, later, in Borrowdale, 7 nights 8-15 April 1958 (from my battered old Senior Scout Membership Card). I was by that time a Lake District veteran (my father was born in near-by Barrow-in-Furness), but this was a particularly memorable week. First the weather was wonderful: very cold at night (any water would freeze) but beautifully warm (and hot even) during the day. The objective of the week was rock-climbing (after some very brief training in Derbyshire), so at one point we managed a ‘very difficult’ rock climb on the side of Great Gable. Indeed, there is a photo, sadly mislaid, of me with Pete Davies (see above), both of us sitting alongside a cairn on the top of Gable.

One other memory from that week: roped together and negotiating a precipitous mountain gully, packed with snow, our leader (sadly, I don’t remember his name) suggested we halt, whereupon he produced a tin of condensed milk, emptied it into the snow – and I had the greatest ice cream I had ever tasted!