The Brainiacs and the Bathing Pool
The conversation was fast flowing, thoughtful and intelligent. All manner of topics were discussed - academies, finances in Education, relative living standards, perceptions of other countries, Insel culture and clotted cream - although we were struggling to keep up. Not that we were part of the conversation of course. We were busy earwigging from our neighbouring table as the group of five academics discussed the various weighty issues that faced the world as they saw it. From what we could tell, at least one of them was from a local university - Plymouth I expect - another was Irish, and two more were from Sweden - Gothenburg if the two plastic cups connected by a length of string were doing their job. They appeared to be talking around a joint presentation they had evidently been charged to prepare for. Well if you’re on an all expenses paid jolly you need to have something to show for the fruits of your Devon cream tea don’t you? Ali winced when they put the cream on first. Messes with the natural order of things in her book. I can never remember which version of the operation I'm supposed to be offended by.
I wonder whether the intellectuals noticed the two pairs of wagging ears at the next table. You see, Ali and I both worked at the same further education college for almost fifty years between us. In fact it’s where we met. Much of what we heard had an oddly familiar ring to it, and at times we almost felt as if we should be contributing. Now and again I felt that old sense of panic as I thought to myself, “I’m supposed to know about this. Hell, I’m supposed to have something clever to say on the subject at a moment’s notice. The principal and the governors are depending on it.” And then I remembered we were just wallflower snoopers, and that we had both long since retired. The only opinion I needed to offer to the world today was whether to ask for the cheese or the ham with my ploughman's lunch. I chose both. The only act of intelligence I had to carry out was to type Brenda’s registration number into the cafe’s new ANPR system without mixing up my zeros and O’s in the process. She has one of each and I’m easily confused.
Lunch over, we left the brains trust to work on their coffee fuelled collaboration and returned to the van, for the final episode of this latest adventure on the moors. I had a location very much in mind, one that would involve squeezing Brenda through a narrow stone gateway along a bouncing track, before wandering down the valley to the river that gave its name to the nearby village my grandmother was born and grew up in more than a hundred years ago. We came here as children, and I was sure there was a pool somewhere along the river, where we used to dive into the cool water on hot summer afternoons, years before having to muster up snippets of what I hoped might pass for considered insight on the finances of the education sector and whether the jam should be added to the scone first.
I hadn’t been to the river here for over forty years. Had I imagined it? I was beginning to think so as I tramped through the bracken along its course, trying to remember exactly where the pool was. Perhaps it was somewhere else entirely. Everything seemed much wilder all these years later, with a deal more vegetation to hamper our progress than I could remember - at least Mother Nature was winning the odd small battle against the human juggernaut in these untainted spaces. When finally I found it, I still wasn’t sure that this was the place. It seemed smaller, more intimate. And where was the waterfall? Had my memory made that bit up, or was the pool fuller in late August when we used to visit every summer? I sat on a rock a few yards down, wellies removed, dangling my feet in the water. And then I heard a small voice calling me. To my lasting surprise, Ali, who really doesn’t like cold water, had stripped down to her underwear and was wading into the pool. Before I knew it she was fully immersed, swimming across its width, catching her breath as the shock caught up with her. There was nothing for it. Within minutes I’d also removed all but my modesty and joined her, feeling the burning sensation of the freezing river gradually subside, to bring a cooling tingle to the heat of the Dartmoor afternoon. A group of cows arrived and grazed above the bank, watching us with bemused interest.
Once again we were reminded why we took early retirement to escape the endless business of trying to sound as though we knew what we were talking about. Here, on a Wednesday afternoon in a bathing pool high up on the moors, we wondered whether any of that had ever really mattered.
The Brainiacs and the Bathing Pool
The conversation was fast flowing, thoughtful and intelligent. All manner of topics were discussed - academies, finances in Education, relative living standards, perceptions of other countries, Insel culture and clotted cream - although we were struggling to keep up. Not that we were part of the conversation of course. We were busy earwigging from our neighbouring table as the group of five academics discussed the various weighty issues that faced the world as they saw it. From what we could tell, at least one of them was from a local university - Plymouth I expect - another was Irish, and two more were from Sweden - Gothenburg if the two plastic cups connected by a length of string were doing their job. They appeared to be talking around a joint presentation they had evidently been charged to prepare for. Well if you’re on an all expenses paid jolly you need to have something to show for the fruits of your Devon cream tea don’t you? Ali winced when they put the cream on first. Messes with the natural order of things in her book. I can never remember which version of the operation I'm supposed to be offended by.
I wonder whether the intellectuals noticed the two pairs of wagging ears at the next table. You see, Ali and I both worked at the same further education college for almost fifty years between us. In fact it’s where we met. Much of what we heard had an oddly familiar ring to it, and at times we almost felt as if we should be contributing. Now and again I felt that old sense of panic as I thought to myself, “I’m supposed to know about this. Hell, I’m supposed to have something clever to say on the subject at a moment’s notice. The principal and the governors are depending on it.” And then I remembered we were just wallflower snoopers, and that we had both long since retired. The only opinion I needed to offer to the world today was whether to ask for the cheese or the ham with my ploughman's lunch. I chose both. The only act of intelligence I had to carry out was to type Brenda’s registration number into the cafe’s new ANPR system without mixing up my zeros and O’s in the process. She has one of each and I’m easily confused.
Lunch over, we left the brains trust to work on their coffee fuelled collaboration and returned to the van, for the final episode of this latest adventure on the moors. I had a location very much in mind, one that would involve squeezing Brenda through a narrow stone gateway along a bouncing track, before wandering down the valley to the river that gave its name to the nearby village my grandmother was born and grew up in more than a hundred years ago. We came here as children, and I was sure there was a pool somewhere along the river, where we used to dive into the cool water on hot summer afternoons, years before having to muster up snippets of what I hoped might pass for considered insight on the finances of the education sector and whether the jam should be added to the scone first.
I hadn’t been to the river here for over forty years. Had I imagined it? I was beginning to think so as I tramped through the bracken along its course, trying to remember exactly where the pool was. Perhaps it was somewhere else entirely. Everything seemed much wilder all these years later, with a deal more vegetation to hamper our progress than I could remember - at least Mother Nature was winning the odd small battle against the human juggernaut in these untainted spaces. When finally I found it, I still wasn’t sure that this was the place. It seemed smaller, more intimate. And where was the waterfall? Had my memory made that bit up, or was the pool fuller in late August when we used to visit every summer? I sat on a rock a few yards down, wellies removed, dangling my feet in the water. And then I heard a small voice calling me. To my lasting surprise, Ali, who really doesn’t like cold water, had stripped down to her underwear and was wading into the pool. Before I knew it she was fully immersed, swimming across its width, catching her breath as the shock caught up with her. There was nothing for it. Within minutes I’d also removed all but my modesty and joined her, feeling the burning sensation of the freezing river gradually subside, to bring a cooling tingle to the heat of the Dartmoor afternoon. A group of cows arrived and grazed above the bank, watching us with bemused interest.
Once again we were reminded why we took early retirement to escape the endless business of trying to sound as though we knew what we were talking about. Here, on a Wednesday afternoon in a bathing pool high up on the moors, we wondered whether any of that had ever really mattered.