More candles to light!

Working a 52 hour week as a residential care assistant did not seem unreasonable to me, I had just left a job in the Lake District as an Assistant Warden at a Youth Hostel where working long hours was part of the job especially in summer when the place was packed. It was through this job – indirectly – that I had arrived in Surrey.

 During term times in the hostel we often had school parties of up to 40 young people staying. One of these Schools came on a regular basis, bringing usually ten youngsters with behavioural problems, they were a Residential Special School from East London and because of demanding behaviour they brought along a large ratio of staff per pupil. They always arrived on Thursdays and stayed until Sunday and we came to know the teachers and staff quite well. On the Friday morning of one such visit, one of the female staff became ill with a migraine attack, and was so ill that she needed to stay behind at the hostel. Over breakfast I overheard the teachers discussing how they wouldn’t be able to do the fell walk they had planned that day because of the indisposed staff member, and knowing I was one for doing something a bit different the warden suggested that I might go with them as an extra adult. This of course was long before Police checks and other such devices were introduced for the safety of young people, and as I had helped them in the past with route planning and therefore spent some time with the pupils and the staff they took us up on the offer.

 The day was eventful from beginning to end, none of the pupils, who had arrived at dusk the evening before had ever been in such a rural place and the look on their faces at what was around them was worth it alone. The sheep roaming at will on the fells, sturdy Herdwick’s with matted coats, curled horns and glassy eyes were the first hurdle. After one boy decided that he would not venture within 50 yards of them, it was a real battle of minds to persuade them all that the sheep were certainly more afraid of them than the other way around. Then when they realised that they were to actually walk up the side of Red Pike complete with cascading waterfall, there was great unrest. One girl, aged about 14 stared up to the summit and truly looked terrified. She asked in true Eastender twang.

“What’s up there Miss?”

 I happily replied that there was a tarn and a great view.

“A tarn?” she said, an incredulous look on her face. “A real tarn, wiv shops an harses?”

They did make it to the top, stopping off at Bleaberry Tarn for a packed lunch and even though they were expressly told that the water was icy, boots and socks were discarded for a paddle, the screams that came forth had me imagining the Cockermouth Mountain Rescue team arriving at any moment to attend to the crisis. We continued to the top picking our way at times across Sourmilk Gill which they loved, drinking from the fast running brackenish waterfall and pulling one another over the rough bits.

They were good as gold and apart from one or two small arguments mostly between themselves were a delight to be with. The whole experience gave me my reason for scouring the papers over the following weeks looking for a job working with young people.