On the joys of farm visits and getting sick on the bus
School tour season is in full swing. Coach loads of children are chugging their way to farms and monuments. The inside story from teacher Mary O’Callaghan
The sight of them gladdens the hearts of those who remember their own school tours. The luckless few stuck behind the coaches feel no such gladness. Eye contact is made with the tearaways on the back seat of the coach with their eye rolling and face making. Inside the coach, several green-faced children sit on the remains of today’s newspaperwhile its owner has the makings of a pounding headache. A colleague nervously fingers rolls of plastic bags and packets of wipes. Across the aisle, the newest teaching recruit chats to the kids. God bless her innocence. It’s her first tour. She doesn’t realise she needs to conserve her energy for what is to come. New recruit is patiently answering the questions fired at her by a gaggle of girls. Yes, she has a boyfriend. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, she might marry him.
Soon the coach swings onto the forecourt. No one can move until everyone has been counted. And recounted. And warned the next person who moves, thereby messing up the count, will not be allowed to ride the donkey/touch the bones/make the bog shake.
Off the coach, the experienced teachers cast about for a rickety wooden shack. The toilets on the farm/at the monument, are almost always in a rickety shack. Teachers hasten to visit the still pristine porcelain before the kids. New recruit laughs, says that she will go when she has to.
The children are a motley crew. Overprotected kids (plastered-in-sun-cream or faces barely visible under rain hoods) hold hands with classmates whose shoes are mismatched and the property of their older sister. The overprotected are weighed down, prepared for every possible contingency. Others swing supermarket bags of lunch composed of giant bags of jellies.
Whether they realise it or not, this moment is make or break for the proprietors of the farm/historic site/play zone. Tell the teachers that complimentary tea and homemade scones await them in a nearby outhouse (converted into a freezing cold coffee shop adorned with baskets of dried flowers and the bodies of long-dead flies), and a return visit is guaranteed. Announce breezily that teachers must accompany their charges every muddy step of the way and the farm has signed its own death warrant.
On the farm, the children wait for their turn to squeeze a new-born chick. Chick squeezing is followed by rabbit dropping and puppy pulling. Then it’s time for the ride. There is always a ride. Sometimes a miniature train. Sometimes a miniature bus. Today they travel by tractor and trailer. The teacher waits for the screaming. She is not disappointed. The trailer lurches and bumps its way down a rutted track. The children scream. They swing across a field. Cows bellow and scatter as the tractor chunters toward them. Endless rounds of Old MacDonald are roared out. It is teacher’s turn to scream, but only on the inside.