Drama

WAINE CONCERT Thursday, izth June at 7.00 p.m. in Hall

PRO GRAMME

En bateau; Cortege; Ballet. (Petite Suite) • • • •

NIGEL AND DAVID PEMBERTON Canzonet (Haydn) and Scherzo-Trio (Beethoven) JONATHAN JONES AND NIGEL PEMBERTON OSZ (Autumn) .. .. .• •• •• •• FERGUS CRAIG AND DAVID PEMBERTON .. Debussy

Concerto No. 1 Slow movement .. .. .. .. ANDREW COLLINSON AND NIGEL PEMBERTON Sonata in A minor, 1st movement . • • • • • Mozart

.. Vivaldi

DAVID KANER AND NIGEL PEMBERTON Trio No. 7 in E flat •• •• .. •• •• •• •• •••• .. Mozart JONATHAN BINNINGTON, JAMES OGLESBY AND GRAHAM FLINTOFF Sonata detta del Nero .. .. .. . • .. • • .. Fantini MARK HEYWOOD AND NIGEL PEMBERTON Duet-Rondo K423 .. • • .. .. • • Mozart ANDREW COPLEY AND DAVID PEMBERTON Concerto. 2nd movement .. . • . • • . .. Haydn

DAVID COPLEY AND DAVID PEMBERTON Quartet Op. 29, 2nd movement _• . .. ..

. • •• •• •• •• Schubert

1.iebeslied

ANDREW WHIFF, DAVID PEMBERTON, ANDREW AND FERGUS CRAIG

Kreiskr

ANDREW WHIPP AND DAVID PEMBERTON The Jockey (Teasdale) and Yesterday (Lennon and McCartney) STEPHEN ASHTON AND NIGEL PEMBERTON Sonata No. 2 Largo and Allegro • • • • • •

PAUL AAGAARD AND CLIVE BROADBENT Debbie; Lonesome Road .. .. .. .. ..

GRAHAM FLINTOFF AND NIGEL PEMBERTON .. Vivaldi

.. Stoneham

ASSOCIATED BOARD EXAMINATIONS

During the year, the following have been successful in Associated Board Examinations. The results are Passes unless shown otherwise:

Name P. V. Aagaard C. R. W. Allan J. P. Armishaw J. P. Binnington 0. J. Bird C. G. Broadbent A. P. Copley D. J. Copley N. F. Harnby N. J. Heslop M. J. Heywood A. F. H. Hjort N. D. Hopton T. C. K. Hyde R. P. Jernmett T. R. W. Jones

B. C. Kaner D. R. Kaner T. A. Kaner P. J. Kelly W. P. Ledger C. C. Marshall J. R. Oglesby A. G. Slater A. G. Whipp C. D. Wombell S. P. Wood

Grade Instrument 5 Piano 1 Violin 3 Clarinet Merit

5

Clarinet Merit 5 Flute Merit

5

Organ Merit 7 Viola 5 Trumpet 3 Clarinet Merit 3 6 4 Clarinet Trumpet Merit Viola Merit 4 Trumpet Merit

5

Piano 7 Piano 6 Organ Distinction 8 Piano Distinction 6

7 Horn Merit Violin

6 Violin

3 5

Piano Merit Clarinet 4 Trombone

5 Viola Merit

5 8 Trumpet Violin Merit

3

Trumpet Merit 2 Violin The following passed Grade 5 Theory:

F. A. Craig, R. 0. B. Gardner, A. J. Nichols, J. R. Oglesby, R. N. Sabey and A. F. M. Stone.

HEIL CAESAR

"That's just how Communists come to power !" A colleague's reaction at the interval contrasted nicely with your reviewer's thoughts about the dangers of Fascism highlighted in the BBC Schools Television updated version of Julius Caesar further adapted by Ian Lowe for our Drama Centre. The production certainly presented us most vividly with all the paraphernalia of 30

the modern authoritarian state — uniformed violence, body searches and control of the media. The twentieth century parallels were so numerous the mind reeled — Spanish Civil War, coup d'etat in Korea, access to television for extremists.

Much of Shakespeare's material was immediately familiar. Kit Bird's Caesar presented a man made arrogant and careless by his own power, heading

CAST (in order of speaking)

Cassius Brutus Trebonius Cicero Caesar Casca Antonia Newscaster Portia Fortune Teller Calpurnia Metellus Messala Decius Ligarius Publius Octavius Rod Craig Tim Baylor Kevin Clarkson Tim Heap Kit Bird Guy Norman Mandy Rigby Craig Lawrence Ruth Addinall Katherine Stancer Jill Gillett Mark Adeney John McGrath Barney Skrentny Ian Anderson Stephen Mawby Chris Bronk

T.V. Director Rupert Brown

Captain Lepidus Newsreader

James O'Farrell Julian Guy Katherine Morcom

Radio Operator Television and Sound Crew: Lawrence Bleasdale, James Rupert Brown and Chris Bronk. Backstage David Hughes, Jon Hirst, Ian McLeish, members of the stage option. Photography: Lawrence Bleasdale. Programme and Poster Design: Mark Lodge. Producer: Ian Lowe. 31

Mark Lodge Hewitt, John Abbott, Terry Wallhead and

towards his tragic end, not even realising why. The conspirators were largely an unsavoury bunch, with Rod Craig's Cassius the most unscrupulous and menacing. Tim Raylor as Brutus gave an excellent portrait of a man tortured by the conflicting claims of loyalty and morality — an intelligent, sensitive liberal pushed around and manipulated by others less humane but more forceful than himself, a figure more reminiscent of School than politics. His bowing out left the stage a less hopeful place.

The adaptors' inventions had their own special interest. John McGrath played an independent army-commander with the right degree of efficient detachment and lack of humour. With Mark Antony's transformation into the Lady Antonia the play's modern resonances rang even louder; Mandy Rigby's iron resolve and vowels formed to command turned the character into a frightening mixture of ITN newsreader and Prime Minister. Indeed her performance on the closed circuit allowed the audience to see both studio cynicism and screen conviction at the same time, a remarkably ungimmicky use of modern resources for dramatic effect.

The production extended the Drama Centre almost as far as possible without excluding the audience. Scaffolding dominated the second half, the split levels took us back to the devices of Shakespeare's wooden 0, while the television screens exercised the same hypnosis as ever. Furthermore the set required the services of a host of technicians whose involvement made the event a school play in the widest and best sense.

The many minor characters, some of them very young, acquitted themselves with the panache we have come to expect, so that the total effect was stunning — a universal situation, cleverly scripted main roles and a wealth of dramatic variation both to entertain and instruct the Third Former and also to remind his parents (and grandparents) of what dangers we have faced and still face in the modern world.

R.G.D.

LA CANTATRICE CHAUVE by Eugene Ionesco

One remark overheard immediately after the first performance of the play was that "it could never have been written by an Englishman", and this is certainly true, in spite of the fact that Ionesco's characters have English names and that great play is made upon their "Englishness" in the opening sequence. The programme notes pointed out the debt owed by Ionesco to phrase-book dialogue, parodied at the beginning of the play in the scene between Monsieur and Madame Smith, which owed its artificiality to the "situation dialogue" of the language textbook. It was, of course, the artificiality of the characters and their situation which Ionesco was highlighting in stripping their speech of logic in the normal sense, reducing conversation to meaningless non-sequiturs which, in a manner typical of the French, they still sought to invest with intellectual significance.

We were warned that the play was a parody of drawing-room comedy and the actors were served by a very fine, traditional-looking, set which contrasted admirably with the confusion of "background" music greeting the audience as they entered the auditorium. Unfortunately, many of those present seemed to miss the point of this clever attempt to begin the process of disorientation, being content merely to play "spot-the-tune", until the arrival of the characters from the back of the auditorium and their inspection of their surroundings reinforced lonesco's insistence upon the artificiality of the situation. From this point, nothing operated on an accepted level, even the "trois coups", which traditionally signal the start of a performance, becoming an informal tattoo.

Fortunately, for an audience with varying levels of competence in French, the actors enunciated very clearly, a fact which greatly helped those struggling with the vocabulary. With very little hesitation, relationships were established

and explored, to reveal the emptiness of bourgeois society. Ruth Addinall and Warren Carr, with many cries of, "Comme c'est curieux" and "Quelle coincidence", eventually establish that Monsieur and Madame Martin are man and wife and that Alice, the pretty little girl with "un veil blanc et l'autre rouge", is their daughter — only to have Katharine Denison (playing Mary, with the touch of "gaite parisienne" which one has come to expect of the traditional French maid) reveals that they are not man and wife and that there are two little girls called Alice, one having the right eye red and the left eye white, the other with the right eye white and the left eye red!

More confusion was to follow, with David Hinchliffe, as Monsieur Smith, asserting, "Quand on sonne a la porte, c'est qu'il y a quelqu'un", only to have Jill Gillett, as his wife, "prove" that "Quand on sonne a la porte, c'est qu'il n'y a personne". This argument was settled by the Fire Officer (Roderick Barron) whose arrival and ringing (or non-ringing) of the doorbell had initially prompted the discussion.

As the play moved towards its climax, the characters presented in turn a series of "anecdotes", culminating in Roderick Barron's "tour de force", the Fire Officer's recital of "le rhume". The climax itself was well executed, both by actors and background staff, as a total breakdown of communication was conveyed in the confused, simultaneous shouting of the characters, the changes of lighting and the strange background music. This led up to a complete blackout, from which emerged chants of, "C'est pas par la, c'est par ici" and a repetition of the opening scene of the play, with Monsieur and Madame Martin substituted for Monsieur and Madame Smith, but carrying on an identical conversation.

The play is ambitious in its attempts to break down the conventions accepted by its audiences, but once its aims are known, it depends less upon any intrinsic literary value (which Ionesco would be the last person to claim for any of his work) than upon imaginative staging and competent execution, in which the author was well served by the "cercle dramatique francais de l'Institut S. Pierre".

P.W.

LA CANTATRICE CHAUVE

Madame Smith Monsieur Smith La bonne Mary Madame Martin Monsieur Martin Le Capitaine des Pompiers Jill Gillett David Hinchliffe Katharine Denison Ruth Addinall Warren Carr Roderick Barron

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The group wishes to thank the following for their help:- Andrew Barrell — prompting and bells. Daniel Bond — Theatre Royal Properties Department. Mike Dawson 1 John Gaastra f — set. Joyce Hirst — Bourgeois bric-a-brac and objets d'art. Mark Lodge — publicity. Ian Lowe — all kinds of things. Iain McLeish — lighting. Keith Pemberton — music. Alan Tooms — printing. Leading Fireman Wade — North Yorkshire Fire Brigade (York). Terry Wellhead "I_ Ken Wootton f — lighting and sound.

THE MIDDLE SCHOOL PLAY

Journey's End is a deceptively difficult play to perform successfully. It appears straight forward enough — an immediately accessible situation, clearly defined characters, only one location, a comparatively simple lighting 33

plot — but there are hidden pit-falls. With most of the action taking place

off stage and with a realistically cramped set, the play essentially consists of over two hours of static talking by characters who verge dangerously close to stereotypes expressing values that, to a modern audience, can all too easily appear absurd. Mark Adeney's production made the play work and, whatever other comments or quibbles a carping critic might make, that is the ultimate

test of success.

Caught in the horrors of the first world war trenches the people are pitted against the place and all, in different ways, are the losers. For this reason the set, the physical manifestation of the place, is crucial and here was the production's greatest strength. By its daring conception and visual impact the set brought the reality of the trenches vividly alive, never for a moment allowing us to forget the external fight against which the inner conflicts of characters take place. Of these characters it was Andy Stubbs' Stanhope that dominated the evening. While others acted their parts, he was his, embodying the brooding exhaustion of a man fighting for sanity in the mad house of war while desperately summoning up hidden resources of inner strength to try to ensure the physical and moral survival of his company. The maturity of this performance was remarkable.

The other characters all had to fight against the temptations of caricature.

Andrew Hjort's bluff, dependable Trotter succeeded admirably by allowing the humour of the part to come naturally, faltering in credibility only near the end in the drunk scene where he slightly over played. In contrast David Clark's performance grew in strength after an unconvincing start in which his too mechanical emphasis prevented him from exploring the subtleties of the character. His final, most difficult scene was, by the Saturday night, his

best as he effectively conveyed both Osborne's sense of imminent death and

his courageous reassurance of the nervous Raleigh. Raleigh is perhaps now the most awkward of all the parts, for youthful idealisation of war and hero

worship are outmoded follies, too easily turned into material for a "Ripping

Yarns" parody. Richard Venable managed to avoid the potential absurdity of the role by consistent underplaying, giving us a more muted and sensitive characterisation at the expense of the dramatic change of attitude after the raid. If his is the most difficult part then Hibbert's is surely the most unrewarding, having too few scenes to fully establish a character whose main feature is, in any case, lack of character. There were some excellent moments in Barney Skrentney's performance but he never quite got into the play and, while he remains one of our most promising talents, he must concentrate now on breath control if he is to reach the ends of sentences without running out of steam. Of the other parts Bradley Say's Colonel showed admirable, quiet (sometimes too quiet) control, suggesting a sympathetic caring man beneath the weakness and platitudes. Dave Thomas gave the play a very confident start with his cheerfully inefficient Hardy : Richard Norman coupled good comic timing with unobtrusively efficient handling of the complex catering demands of the script and Andrew Paterson, Richard Mansfield and Jeremy

Barrett all gave sterling support.

For all the individual talent displayed, it was the teamwork that was the most impressive aspect of the production all the credit for this must rest squarely on the producer. Mark Adeney can be well pleased with his directorial debut for here was a consistently intelligent interpretation of the play where even the effects that did not quite succeed, such as the synchronisation of the

explosions and the roof collapse or the over hasty lighting change at Raleigh's death, were still well thought out ideas. The Middle School play is an excellent

opportunity for young talent to be discovered and developed —Journey's End not only fulfilled this role but was a very impressive production in its own right.

I.M.K.L.

JOURNEY'S END CHARACTERS

STANHOPE, Commanding an Infantry Company Andy Stubbs

OSBORNE David Clark

TROTTER HIBBERT RALEIGH THE COLONEL THE COMPANY SERGEANT-MAJOR MASON, the Officers' Cook HARDY, an Officer of another Regiment

A YOUNG GERMAN SOLDIER

Andrew Hjort Barney Skrentney Richard Venable Bradley Say Andrew Paterson Richard Norman Dave Thomas Richard Mansfield

A PRIVATE SOLDIER Jeremy Barrett Many thanks to D.J.H. for help and advice.

STAGE MANAGER/LIGHTING James Muirhead

DIRECTOR/PRODUCER Mark Adeney

A DAY'S CLIMBING IN SNOWDONIA

The day was a fine one, with crisp cool weather. The sun had not yet come up from behind Pen yr Ole Wen but a slight pink reflection on its shoulder from the early morning light was rapidly appearing. The moon was still up, behind our hostel, yr Hafod, and above Y Garn and Foel Goch. It felt beautiful, with just the odd car purring along, the gurgle of running water, and the bleating of sheep.

All thirty of us gathered outside the cottage, waiting for the off, up the mountains which towered behind the hostel. Now we were just waiting for the masters to appear, who were just going to lock up the hut, and then we would be on our way.

It was nearing ten now, and eventually there was a line of us zig-zagging up the mountain towards Foel Goch — but we weren't going to this summit. Overnight frost was visible on the ground and together with ice on the mountainside it was treacherous if you weren't careful. Now I thought that I didn't want to go on if this was what it was going to be like; but soon it was over. The pace was steady although I found myself at the back — but who cares ? It wasn't a race.

A sudden tiredness struck me as I had not slept well the first night because of cold and restlessness.

After about two hours we were nearing the plateau between Foel Goch and Y Garn, which was covered in crisp, frozen snow; and it was a relief, for me anyway, to reach some flat ground for a while and have a rest while the others took photographs. But the rest was short-lived as we had to get down before nightfall.

We could see Snowdon ahead of us, sprinkled with snow around the summit. As we were going southwards towards Y Garn the sun was dazzling us on the glittering snow. I thought this was the time to have some ski goggles. But I forgot about the sun and looked away over towards the north, admiring the magnificent views towards Bangor and Anglesey.

We reached the shoulder of Y Garn which had a lot of loose rock on it; and it often slipped away from under my feet. The shoulder was steep and dangerous as there was a sheer drop on one side and the shoulder itself had some icy patches.

It was tiring going up here and I felt my calf muscles bulging and aching although the pain was soon over as we reached the top.

Here we rested for a while for other people to catch up, and to give them a rest as well. But when everyone had caught up and was on top, we set off 35

immediately. A lot of people had thought it was lunch, but they had to put their packups away hurriedly and repack their ruck-sacks. I found myself behind everyone else.

On the way down, which was a fairly gentle slope, the party was strung out in a long line in front of the great mass of Glyder Fawr. Below, I could see a lake, frozen from the intense bitter cold for some weeks. Around this area we were going to have lunch before we split up into two parties.

Soon we had all collected at the foot of the big Glyder and we all chose a spot for lunch, preferably out of the Arctic Wind. All I wanted at that time was my boiling hot coffee, as I was cold, and I wasn't hungry either.

After a hasty lunch, we split up into two parties; one going down the Devil's Kitchen, the other over Glyder Fawr. A party of about fourteen of us started off up the Glyder. It was icy at first as water had frozen, but then we got onto the main path, which zig-zagged up the mountain gently. The tiredness came back again, but this wouldn't keep me from going up. The feeling of freedom came back to me, and it was just marvellous being up in the mountains again.

The path continued to zig-zag almost to the summit and as we got higher the snow became more apparent, in drifts at the top. Aching legs were putting me in agony, and I was glad to know where the top was after being up the same mountain the year before. The view was incredible, and with clear, cool weather we could see so much: north up to Anglesey and beyond, west to the Caernarvon peninsula, east back towards England with some factory smoke appearing over Merseyside.

There was no time to stop as nightfall was drawing near. We hurried down as quickly as possible without killing ourselves. It was snow at first but then bog grass which was wavy in the wind. My toes began to ache as my boots were too small and they were hitting the ends.

There was a big lake below us which we were heading for first. We soon reached that; and then it was relatively flat track to the Snowdon car park where we were going to be picked up just after dusk.

Jonathan Winchurch.

I found my second trip more enjoyable, for two main reasons. Firstly, I knew what I was in for: climbing on the mountains, friendliness in the hut, and how to occupy oneself in the evenings. Secondly, the weather was kinder, and varied each day. It provided something for each walk that made it more exciting. Wind on the first day was so strong that we could hardly walk. There was a blizzard on the second day; sun and occasional heavy snow showers on the third; and a magnificent last day with blue sky for the most time.

The year before I had found that as it was a new experience I didn't take full advantage of the options available. For example, I made the mistake of going into Bangor . . . However, I have thoroughly enjoyed both trips to Snowdonia and hope to go on many more. I recommend it to anyone who wants to get away from it all and to experience new types of adventure. Ian Saville.

SAHARA EXPEDITION - EASTER 1980

The expedition this year was again led by Mr. Bulcock, accompanied this time by Mr. Tooms, and consisted of: David Aspinall, Alistair Carder-Geddes, Richard Coates, Anthony Dixon, Andrew Fawthrop, Tim Heap, Paul Johnson, Claire Lockey, Sarah Neville, Gary Oates, Sally Shuttleworth, David Topham and Charles Walker. The expedition started from in front of the school on the first Sunday morning of the Easter Holidays: the day was spent travelling down to Ply- 1 I 36

mouth, where we stayed the night at the Drake Hotel after discovering that the Post House had mis-booked us. Monday morning began at six o'clock with an early call; the ferry sailed just after nine, and soon, in spite of quite a smooth sea most of the party had retreated to the safety of their cabins, where

they spent most of the twenty-four hour crossing to Northern Spain.

After docking in Santander late the next morning, the expedition arrived

for the first time on foreign soil: soon we were walking up the beautiful, but steep, Cantabrian Hills — the minibus was apparently incapable of hauling both us and Mr. Bulcock up one particularly steep stretch. Once over the top, we made fairly good time southward through Spain, arriving the next next morning at Torremolinos on the south coast after a gruelling twentyfour hour drive via Madrid and Malaga.

A swim on the beach, and a drive along the Costa del Sol later, we caught

a ferry at Algeciras, and that night, after a smooth crossing of the Straits of

Gibraltar, which afforded us an excellent view of the Rock, and a short stop

once ashore in the Spanish-controlled duty-free port of Ceuta, we pitched camp in the dark at Asilah on the north-west coast of Morocco.

A brilliant sun the next morning revealed a magnificent beach on which

we spent the day, sun-bathing, swimming, building a sand-castle and recupera-

ting from the exhausting journey through Spain. This was our first opportunity

to sample our own cuisine, which went from strength to strength as the expedi-

tion progressed. On the Friday, a visit to nearby Tangier offered most of the

party their first experience of Moroccan "salesmanship", and a gentle initiation to the fine art of haggling; on the Saturday, we left the beach and travelled

southwards through countryside ranging from pastoral to arid, stopping for

the night just north of Marrakech.

Marrakech, on the Sunday morning, was one of the highlights of the trip :

the colourful markets, the ancient medina, and the exotic main square, with its elaborately dressed water-carriers, its story-tellers and snake-charmers, although highly touristic (and hence exorbitantly priced, as many of us found to our cost!) offered hours of entertaining sight-seeing and haggling. In the afternoon, with the temperature inside the bus well beyond the range of the

thermometer, we began our long journey eastward to the Sahara dunes. That

night, after a minor repeat of the Cantabrian Hills incident (yes — we had to walk again) we slept out in a small valley in the Atlas Mountains, where the dew came down like rain and an intinerant Arab deftly removed Anthony Dixon's money belt from the bus.

The next day saw us haggling again as we climbed steadily upwards, this

time with the roadside amethyst-sellers : it was here that the commercial value of the three girls on the trip became apparent, with Claire Lockey being offered one piece of rock for ten dirhams and two kisses !

After crossing the High Atlas that morning, we travelled for the next

three days through the barren, rocky semi-desert, stopping for a swim at the Source Bleu de Meski on the Tuesday afternoon, and crossing the Algerian frontier at Figuig on the Wednesday evening: the Algerian officials are sup-

posedly renown for their cussedness and corruptibility, and it was mainly the

latter that we experienced as we passed through their customs in record time.

Our outward journey finally ended on Thursday afternoon as we came

over a hill to the breathtaking sight of the small green oasis of Taghit, with its palm trees and its typical Saharan mud-hut village, nestling at the foot of an enormous caramel sand dune. Unfortunately, the hotel at which we had planned to spend a few nights of luxury was full of Germans, and as we pitched camp for the night, beneath the dunes, we were beset by the local merchants, who competed to buy all our old jeans

The next morning, Sarah Neville surprised us all by being the first one

to climb a dune before breakfast ! Others soon followed and the rest of the day was spent climbing dunes and around the hotel swimming pool. The

Germans finally departed on Saturday and we booked into the hotel that morning : after doing our laundry and enjoying a shower, the rest of the day passed in much the same way as Friday.

The following morning marked the start of our return journey and for an uneventful (except for two flat tyres — probably thanks to our Algerian "friends") day-and-a-half we retraced our steps back across the Algerian frontier and soon after another swim in the Source Bleu on Monday afternoon, we turned north to cross the Atlas by a different route.

We arrived back at Asilah on Tuesday, and Wednesday was spent either on the beach, or making a final visit to Tangier, where Tim Heap managed to get mugged by a small gang who made their getaway in a sort of motorized wheelbarrow !

The next day, after a brief stop in Tetuaan to collect our mail from the poste restante, and a not so brief stop in Ceuta to do our duty-free shopping, we crossed back from Africa to Spain and spent the night in a hotel. It had been arranged for us to meet Mr. Croft on the Friday, for a visit to the Domecq Bodega at Jerez. This proved to be most interesting and that afternoon, after a good lunch, we arrived at a campsite just south of Seville.

Seville proved to be an easy place to get lost in on Saturday, indeed, David Aspinall was actually given up for lost until we overtook him on the way back to the campsite, with only seven miles left to walk. The party returned to Seville next day to see a bull-fight, and, at crack of dawn on Monday, set off northwards again, arriving at Palencia, where we had what was probably the best meal of the trip, by nightfall.

After the meal, we travelled on into the early morning in order to reach Santander in time for the ferry at eleven, but as we began to climb the Cantabrian Hills, the weather, which had been deteriorating since Sunday morning, turned from bad to worse. Rain gave place to snow, and eventually a blizzard, which culminated in our having to push the bus and trailer (separately at one stage) up the last mile of the pass, in thick and often driving snow.

We arrived, still dripping wet, but just in time, the next morning, only to find the ferry late and Santander flooded, but by that afternoon most of the party were more concerned with the effects of a none-too-smooth sea as we sailed homewards.

After arriving in Plymouth late on Wednesday morning, the journey back to York was uneventful and we arrived late at night to a reception committee of anxious parents. It became clear as we unloaded the trailer that between us we had accumulated large quantities of Moroccan leather goods and national dress. Amazingly, the party were all in good health, for all, apart from Sarah Neville and Mr. Tooms, had suffered from illnesses ranging from sunstroke to food-poisoning to sea-sickness during the trip.

Finally, on behalf of the party, I would like to thank Mr. Bulcock and Mr. Tooms, and everybody else who was connected with the organisation and preparation for the expedition, for a great experience, and a most enjoy- able holiday.

T.A.H.

NORWAY 1980

Previous sea crossings had left some members of the St. Peter's School Norway Expedition wary of matters nautical. However, on Monday, 14th July the North Sea was on its best behaviour and, after an easy drive from 7 St. Peter's Grove, the sixteen members of the group set sail from Newcastle on the "MS Blenheim". After a reasonable night's sleep and breakfast, the jagged coast of Norway was sighted. As we slipped in between the islands and up the Fjord towards Bergen, cameras appeared as the photographers

began their three week marathon throughout the country — the results of which we await eagerly. After disembarking we left Bergen and began our journey north through rain which we hoped would soon stop. The next day proved drier but more exhausting, when the brown bus and trailer were unable to climb the steep gradients of the Sognefjell mountains unaided. After passing Trondheim we continued up the Arctic Highway towards the town of Mo-iRana and Svartisen, a permanent four hundred square kilometre cap of ice and snow.

We arrived at the Svartisen camp site at about 8.o p.m. on Thursday evening. The following morning we packed tents, sleeping bags and fooa (largely consisting of sweets) for a two day walk. We took a small boat along the Svartisvatnet Lake and then walked (with a number of tourists) towards the Osterdalsisen glacier, which came off the ice cap. We then walked up the side of the glacier and pitched camp near its head at about 6.o p.m. At about 8.3o p.m. we left our tents and sleeping bags and, after clambering up a steep bank, reached the ice cap itself. We walked north-west for about threequarters of an hour until we decided we had reached the Arctic Circle. We then started back to our camp, and a small route change ended up with us crossing in bare feet a stream which flowed from an ice-covered lake. No members of the party regarded it as warm. Having spent the remainder of the night and part of the morning in our tents we made our way back to the lake and after an hour long wait for the boat we arrived back at the campsite where we had left the bus and trailer. A quiet evening for all ensued.

The next day we drove away from Svartisen to where the Arctic Highway crosses the Arctic Circle and there we found a huge number of tourists. After spending some time buying cards at the shop thoughtfully provided for that purpose we went south, driving through part of Sweden, and then camped on a beach next to Rossvatnet, one of the largest inland lakes in Europe. Late in the evening several reindeer came along the beach to drink but were evidently put off by our bright orange tents. The next morning we drove towards Trondheim and after another rainy camp went into the city, where we spent several hours before continuing our drive south. We reached a pleasant roadside lay-by where we spent the night, after a supper of Norwegian plaice which we'd bought in Trondhein fish market. The following day we arrived in the Romsdal valley and pitched camp in the afternoon below the 1,80o ft. high Troll Wall. On our first day in Romsdal we split into two groups. One group walked for about is miles along the Langfjelldal valley while the other visited the nearby town of Andalesnes. The next day the party again split into small groups, some of which walked and some of which swam or spent more time in Andalesnes.

Driving south from Romsdal we passed through Lom, with its quaint wooden church, and reached the northern most point of Josterdalobreen, the largest ice-cap in Norway. After pitching camp the group again headed for the snowline. The ice was much easier to reach than that on Svartisen, and soon we were standing on a 5,700 ft. summit, perhaps a little closer to understanding the phrase, "on the roof of the world". Descending to goulash and mash seemed a bit of an anticlimax. The next day we drove down the west side of the ice-cap looking for another way onto it — unfortunately our main hope for this proved fruitless, and in the hot sunshine driving was hard on the passengers as well as the driver. Leaving the Josterdalsbreen we headed south again.

On Tuesday, at the start of our third week in Norway we camped soon after lunch and spent the afternoon sunbathing on an island in the middle of a warm river. After a mixed grill in the evening we slept off the previous days' travelling. The following day we drove for most of the time, arriving in Bergen at about 6.o p.m., and eventually finding a campsite — only the second organised campsite we stayed on. On Thursday, leaving the trailer on the site we 39