By way of an apology (although I still wonder whether it’s necessary!)
You may wonder who Gino (see below) is, and hopefully if he were to read this now; firstly he would recognise himself and remember the occasion and secondly, as he’ll now be grown up, he’ll forgive the slight deception, but read on and “All will be revealed” as they say!!
Due to a “special offer” it had been decided to take away the Year 5’s from school, for a short trip (2 nights) at a residential centre in the Forest of Dean, as preparation for longer trip we usually ran for the Year 6’s. We were also looking to extend our residential programme and looking at ways to provide the children with an experience away from home, for as little money as possible and possibly getting away from the typical “Field Trip” experience. So, we had briefed the Centre of our intention of having a “Storytelling” theme running throughout the visit, whilst dipping into some of the activities they had to offer.
Interestingly, at this stage, they found it quite difficult to get away from the environmental studies type activities and think Literacy, but as schools were increasingly looking for different ways to cover the curriculum, changes were afoot and the Centre had already spent quite a lot of time and money developing historical themes and had build a fantastic Anglo Saxon house in the field behind the centre, which as you will hear has the most amazing views out from the Forest over the River Severn and beyond. But, more of this later.
We had also been fortunate to obtain a small grant to make this visit possible and part of the package was to hire in a professional Storyteller for part of the visit, to both set the scene and tell us some of his stories, but also to try and inspire the children to come up with some of their own. Indeed, during the visit a star was born, and we discovered that a relatively new child to the school, of African origin, had the most amazing, seemingly natural ability to weave the most fantastic and usually very gory tales, using a tremendous range of skills for one so young. And although the stories didn’t always hang together brilliantly, he had obviously heard accomplished storytellers in the past and many of the techniques, such as voice, volume and facial expression had been picked up and he could keep a fairly lively class of 10 year olds spellbound for a considerable time.
One of the activities for the visit was for individuals or indeed small groups to have some time working on stories, based on the idea of a journey, and modifying one of the Centre’s geographical activities – map sticks, where the children use a length of stick to make a linear map, tying on natural objects to “map” their journey. They would then “read” these maps to retrace their route whilst directing another group on their journey. So, simply, the map sticks became “Story Sticks” and the journey had to involve some sort of adventure along the way, the tied on additions became “aide memoirs” in the same way that someone telling a story might jot notes down on a series of cards. The children then had to “walk” the story for another group as well as remembering their stories, with obviously the help of their story sticks, for a storytelling session later that evening. It was also a “rule” that each member of the group had to take part and tell part of the story, no strong silent types allowed, even if the less confident simply announced the story or did part of it in “duet” with one of the other group members.
So, some of the first evening time was spent telling their own stories as well as having a session with the professional, who wove some wonderful tales interspersed to great effect, and hopefully with some of the techniques rubbing off on the enthralled children, with music and song.
On the second evening, there were more stories to tell and we were asked if we would like to use the Anglo Saxon house, where we could light a fire and try to keep warm – I forgot to mention that the trip was during a particularly cold and frosty February, with night time temperatures plummeting well below freezing. But, the thought of sitting in an Anglo Saxon house, warmed at least on the front, with the flames of the fire casting eerie shadows amongst the rafters was too good an opportunity to miss, at least for a short while, before returning for a warming cup of cocoa and bed!
Gino’s Night
At the appointed hour, well wrapped up against the piercing cold, we took our torches and ventured out into the night. The moon was full, and being still low in the sky seemed magnified and cast an almost warming light, had it not been so perishingly cold! The sky was completely clear of clouds, but as the moon was yet to reach its brightest, there were quite a multitude of stars twinkling in the cold night air, just visible through our own clouds caused by the animated party breathing out and chattering excitedly.
The route took us through a dark piece of woodland, down a short track, which had the ground not been turned to iron by the deep frost, would have been quite muddy, through a wooden gate and onto the field in which the wooden house had been built and now, despite the dark, stood out sharply in the moonlight as well as being silhouetted by the distant lights of Gloucester town. The true majesty of the scene unveiled itself as we crossed the field; as the moon hung low in the sky above the silvery line of the far off river, etched along its length by the moonlight, which underneath the moon turned the river into a golden pathway – who needed an Anglo Saxon house, with the flames of the fire causing shadows to dance magically around the rafters, surely the scene before us was inspiration enough, but it was mighty cold and the thought of at least a little warmth from the promised fire was too much to resist and had us fumbling, with the all too modern key to unlock the heavy wooden door.
Inside, was some respite from the cold, as it at least stops a gentle breeze, that you almost didn’t realise was there until being sheltered from it made you realise that icy fingers were no longer creeping into any tiny chink in your cold weather armour! The Centre staff had left a fire made up in the central hearth, ready for a match to hopefully make it spring into life, the paper ignite the kindling and kindling catch the bigger sticks and logs from which the warmth would, with a bit of luck, emanate. Despite my cynicism, quite quickly we had a reasonable blaze and even a little warmth, or was it simply that the mind being a powerful thing, equates flames with heat!! Sorry more cynicism, but actually the springing of the fire to life, magically transformed the interior of the house we now sat in and I for one was transported back in time!! Having not been in the house before it was interesting to use the firelight and torches to look around and discover what seemed to be a very faithful reproduction of an Anglo Saxon dwelling, complete with; primitive furniture, cooking pots and utensils and a sleeping platform above where no doubt the families animals would have slept, perhaps adding a little warmth as well as an odour or two!! Now animals of a different kind inhabited the space and most of them seemed to appreciate at lease something of the magic of the place – certainly a stark contrast to warm cosy homes that seemed a million miles, as well as nearly a thousand years away, but in reality, which almost seemed to have been suspended, were only a few miles and less than an hour over the river!
Some of magic rubbed off and having viewed our surrounding, one or two stories from our visit’s work were shared, the atmosphere of the place adding a certain something to even the humblest of offering and the flickering flames helping to add expression and animation to the plainest of faces. A good time was being had by all , and then the bubble burst, when some bright spark, one of the animals (sorry child), not something from the fire, found a small piece of raw wool lying abandoned from the weaving that a previous group visiting the house had done, and wondered if it would burn!! You might think that said miscreant was Gino, but not so! He might similarly know who he is and at this particular point was far from popular, as we discovered that wool does indeed burn and produces the most foul smelling thick acrid smoke that despite efforts to remove it from the fire or at least remove the choking smoke, by opening the door, proved unsuccessful and we were forced to abandon the relative warmth of the house and sit instead on the logs outside, bathed now in brighter but no warmer moonlight taking in once again the splendour of the crystal clear and sparkling night hoping that given a short time the air in the house might clear enough for us to return. As it was taking its time and indeed so awful was the stench that an early return seemed unlikely, so enjoying the spinning of a good yard myself and certainly inspired by the location, I quietly asked the assembled crowd who had now almost stopped haranguing the wool burner, whether they would like me to tell a story, to which there was general agreement, as my assembly stories usually met with approval.
Having made the offer, I had to think quickly; a story I already knew sprang to mind, but there was a danger that I may have told it them before and so interest might be lost or the story wouldn’t reflect the splendour of our surrounding (would “How the leopard got its spots” or “Three Billy Goats Gruff” work sitting outside on a freezing cold February night?) or should it be a new one, premiered on this night inspired by the surroundings. Due to the storytelling theme for the visit, it really had to be the latter, so I launched into a story at the time with no idea where the journey would take me, and in nautical terms, well I had launched into the story, sailing very close to the wind!
To buy myself a little time to think, I started to tell the children about the previous Anglo Saxon inhabitants of the house, made up names and talked about how they lived a simple life, that was until a handsome prince happened by and became transfixed by the beauty of daughter of the house and in an instance vowed to marry her – you know the sort of thing, and had by now the children not become huddled and enthralled, it might there and then ended happily ever after. But no, there needed to be more and the daughter, bolshie by nature, was having none of this being taken out of simple, poor life to live in some posh guys jewel encrusted palace, with servants at her beck and call! Well, it called for a journey, a quest, to incur various hardships and danger to bring back some small token, to prove to the beautiful peasant girl that he truly loved her and it wasn’t just some short-lived whim!!
The story wove its way through many a traditional storyline, the journey involving the meeting of various people who bestowed various gifts on the Prince, not immediately useful, but surprisingly useful when later he faced some adversary and needed a quick fix, again I’m sure you know the sort of thing – a phial of liquid smashed to the ground that becomes a raging torrent of water washing away everything and certainly any pursuer, far far away.
The upshot was that he did prove his love and after a sumptuous, but rather truncated wedding ceremony, the couple did live happily ever after. Why, I hear you ask did the prince stint on the wedding celebrations? Well, suddenly that nip in the air I mentioned earlier found its way through a chink and I suddenly realised that the log I was sitting on had mysteriously turned to ice – but that’s another story. The children, including a couple who had been lulled off to sleep, were although still thoroughly engrossed and proving to totally belie the description of the class as “a lively bunch!” were in fact beginning to turn blue and in desperate need of a warming cup of cocoa and a cosy bed. A quick look at my watch told me that the journey we had just been on together had gone on for the best part of an hour – not surprising that I couldn’t feel my feet, and other parts of my anatomy as we cagouled the weary children back to the Centre, reality and warmth!
You might be forgiven for thinking that the piercing cold had numbed the children into submission and had it not been for a conversation I had with one of the children who had sat very close to me, mesmerised by the intricacies of the story, as we made our way back across the field, trying to force some life back into our frozen limbs, I might have thought the same:
The conversation went something like this:
“Mister ‘iggs?”
“Yes Gino?”
“How did you remember all that long story?”
I was just about to say “Well actually I made the whole thing up as I went along!” when, in the moonlight I saw Gino’s face looking up at me, and just managed to stop myself from spoiling the moment and with just a touch of deception said:
“Years of practice Gino!”
To which he replied, with a certain amount of wonderment:
“Oh!”
Now you know and at the time he was none the wiser!! And once again, sorry Gino!
February 2010
