I understand that many of you have decided not to attempt to
become prospective apprentice Master Candle Makers. That’s fine.
I’ve been warning you all the way along about the dangers and complexity
of the essential training not to mention the determination required for such a
journey. For those of you that remain I applaud
you and I promise to give as much detail as I possibly can which might assist
your journey. For those who have had to
accept the humility, the embarrassment and shame of failure I know you will
continue reading because that tiny spark of interest still remains within your
heart, and you are welcome.
Cows in dormitories is one thing, I remember once that some
senior boys once decided to conduct a series of experiments on the aerodynamic abilities
of chickens. We had a school farm which supplied
the school with milk, eggs, vegetables and the occasional working party. All valuable lessons for our lives and of
course necessary, for our existence.
I remember one lesson I learned concerned tractors. Once, on a family farm in Dromara, I was sitting
on a tractor in a barn. I was about six
years old and rather than buzz my lips and make the noise, or the noise that I
thought, resembled a tractor engine, I turned the ignition key. Okay, so as a six year old how was I to know
that the tractor had been left in gear, so that when I turned the ignition key
the tractor sprang into life and charged forward into the wall of the barn,
demolishing it quite effectively I might add.
Now, at Violent Hell, we were out picking spuds on a field
that more resembled the north face of the Eiger rather than a football
pitch. This wasn’t slave labour, far
from it, we actually looked forward getting out of the classroom and working on
the farm. As a young eleven or twelve
year old boy which would you rather do, stand in a dusty old classroom and
conjugate a Latin verb or be sliding about a field in mud and slurry? However, I have to admit, listening to Virgil
being read with a Northern Irish accent can be quite funny. We, back in the potato field at Violent Hell,
would leap on the trailer at the bottom
of the hill and trundle effortlessly to the top where we would disembark and
make our way to the bottom picking spuds from the uncovered furrow. I decided that I should be the captain of the
ship and therefore be at the front of the convoy. Looking back it was amazing at how my natural
instincts for leadership would occasionally erupt.
I found a solid point for my feet at the base of the engine
and leapt up. I reached out and grabbed
the perpendicular exhaust pipe knowing, or at least expecting, to cut a dash as
either Fletcher Christian or dear old Nelson himself. Of course the tractor had been active for a
couple of hours, working up and down the hill and therefore the exhaust pipe
was screamingly hot. So rather than ‘cutting
a dash’ I was now writhing in agony while twenty boys and a priest cruised past
me laughing their heads off.
I don’t mention the family farm at Dromara much as it was a
mix of good and bad for me. I found my
country cousins to be a bit rough considering that I was a sophisticated urbanite. They would laugh at my short trousers and
long socks much like what would eventually happen at Violent Hell but they
especially liked it when they would encourage me to try and cross an electrified
fence. They had chickens too and I do remember
enjoying watching the chickens run around the kitchen floor as we would be eating
a meal.
As for the poor old chickens at Violent Hill some senior boys
had taken them to the top dorm and launched them out through the windows to see
if they could fly. They couldn’t and had
the aerodynamic properties of a brick.
But it was the first years who got the blame and, who had to tidy the
mess up.
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