Gerry
02-28-2008, 11:35 AM
The highlight of my primary school days with the Christian Brothers had to be the annual Mystery Tour they took us on every June, not long before we had our break for the summer holidays. I can't remember how it was financed but I do know that even if you were busted and didn't have a penny to your name you still went and got all the surprises like everyone else.
The fleet of battered old buses would cough and splutter their way around the barricades escorted by the Boyos and line up on the Folly their drivers who all smoked like trains behind their wheel. Every bus had a big letter stuck to it's front window and every class was told what their letter was. There were nearly forty boys in every class and each bus had two classes jammed into them. You could taste the excitement.
When every bus was ready to burst the Brother would close the big iron gates to the school, turn the giant key in the lock and bury it inside his robes before swinging his arm in the air and pointing west like big John Wayne as he moved the wagon train out.
Brother Doyle had to stand at the front of our bus cause he was last on and there was no seat for him I think. In his thick Galway accent he would burst into song and any boy that didn't join in was likely to get a clip in the ear for not enjoying themselves. It was all Rebel songs they taught us in the Christian Brothers, well other than all the holy songs and you wouldn't dare sing them on a bus run.
As we passed McDaid's Bakery the wagon train stopped and men in white hats and aprons came out to each bus with trays of sandwiches and crates of juice. Food! The singing gotr louder despite the mouthfuls of egg and onion the notes had to negotiate before breaking free.
We we came close to the checkpoint at the Border Brother Doyle order silence and warned that one squeak out of any of us and he would leave us with the Brits. Each bus stopped inside the compound surrounded by the sky high dark green metal fence and a big black soldier carrying his rifle came in the door. One look at our angelic faces and he soon got back off again. One wag down the back shouted "We have Martin McGuinness under the seat" as we drove into Donegal. Then like Pavorotti at the World Cup Brother Doyle stood and filled his chest before launching into the national anthem. But he sang it in Irish and we only knew the English words but we hummed along as if we knew his words.
The sight of waves breaking on the Five Finger Strand had the noise level on our bus break the sound barrier. Each bus spilled their cargo onto the yellow sand and we ran and ran dug and climbed for hours. The Brothers had a big steel drum cut in two and warmed food on the fire the put in it.
God I was at a BBQ before all the swanks on the Culmore Road knew what a BBQ even was.
When it was time to climb back on the bus there was no rush and push. Everybody trying to be last on to get the most out of every second on the sand. Real sand and it not a building site. We didn't sing much as we drove home but the smell in the bus from eighty sweaty boys and a feed of egg and onion sandwiches is something I'll never forget.
Ah well we had next year to look forward to and the Mystery Tour to the Five Finger Strand.
By Gerry Temple
Copyright February 2008
The fleet of battered old buses would cough and splutter their way around the barricades escorted by the Boyos and line up on the Folly their drivers who all smoked like trains behind their wheel. Every bus had a big letter stuck to it's front window and every class was told what their letter was. There were nearly forty boys in every class and each bus had two classes jammed into them. You could taste the excitement.
When every bus was ready to burst the Brother would close the big iron gates to the school, turn the giant key in the lock and bury it inside his robes before swinging his arm in the air and pointing west like big John Wayne as he moved the wagon train out.
Brother Doyle had to stand at the front of our bus cause he was last on and there was no seat for him I think. In his thick Galway accent he would burst into song and any boy that didn't join in was likely to get a clip in the ear for not enjoying themselves. It was all Rebel songs they taught us in the Christian Brothers, well other than all the holy songs and you wouldn't dare sing them on a bus run.
As we passed McDaid's Bakery the wagon train stopped and men in white hats and aprons came out to each bus with trays of sandwiches and crates of juice. Food! The singing gotr louder despite the mouthfuls of egg and onion the notes had to negotiate before breaking free.
We we came close to the checkpoint at the Border Brother Doyle order silence and warned that one squeak out of any of us and he would leave us with the Brits. Each bus stopped inside the compound surrounded by the sky high dark green metal fence and a big black soldier carrying his rifle came in the door. One look at our angelic faces and he soon got back off again. One wag down the back shouted "We have Martin McGuinness under the seat" as we drove into Donegal. Then like Pavorotti at the World Cup Brother Doyle stood and filled his chest before launching into the national anthem. But he sang it in Irish and we only knew the English words but we hummed along as if we knew his words.
The sight of waves breaking on the Five Finger Strand had the noise level on our bus break the sound barrier. Each bus spilled their cargo onto the yellow sand and we ran and ran dug and climbed for hours. The Brothers had a big steel drum cut in two and warmed food on the fire the put in it.
God I was at a BBQ before all the swanks on the Culmore Road knew what a BBQ even was.
When it was time to climb back on the bus there was no rush and push. Everybody trying to be last on to get the most out of every second on the sand. Real sand and it not a building site. We didn't sing much as we drove home but the smell in the bus from eighty sweaty boys and a feed of egg and onion sandwiches is something I'll never forget.
Ah well we had next year to look forward to and the Mystery Tour to the Five Finger Strand.
By Gerry Temple
Copyright February 2008