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A
s we get older many things change but some stay the same. Our old school St.
Michael’s is no more but, for many who went to Hunstanton on the last
weekend in October 2003, friendships were renewed / continued / rekindled
and many many stories were told. After more than 35 years to return to
Ingoldisthorpe, Heacham and Hunstanton was quite an event. To meet so many
“old” (I use the term loosely) friends was tremendous and, to also meet two
other people who had journeyed from “Down Under” for this Jubilee Reunion,
was quite a surprise. Talking, laughing and reminiscing with many people at
this very memorable weekend, it convinced me that St. Michael’s uniquely
prepared pupils to meet the many and varied challenges of life ahead.
Our trip to England was a very special holiday for us both, but especially
for my wife Angela, as she had not been back to England since 1979. The main
purpose of our visit was to catch up with friends and relations, mostly in
the southern part of England, the Midlands and South Wales and, as we went,
gather information for our family tree. As we began to put our initial
thoughts together an email arrived outlining the plans for the OMA Jubilee
Reunion. Angela asked if I would like to go, not knowing what she was
letting herself in for, and the rest is history.
Many memories went through my mind as we drove
northwards up the “old” road from Kings Lynn to Hunstanton, past Lynn
Grammar where many a cricket / soccer match had been played. Through the
wooded section of road at Wolferton, first with a detour to the station to
see the restored buildings, then to Sandringham House and church where I had
my first organ lessons. Then the winding road through the village of
Dersingham before the short straight that led to the well known boarding
house of Brockhill, perhaps more correctly our former home away from home
and, Ingoldisthorpe. I paused for a while to retell Angela some of the
homely comforts that we enjoyed with dear Anna Godfrey – toast cooked over
the open fire in the evening and tastes of mead when honey was being made,
to name but two. Along the narrow winding lane and up the hill to the School
recalling how we sometimes in winter, when the Commer van could not make the
grade, had to trudge through the snow kitted out in wellies, the infamous
rubber mac and sou’wester. On reaching the top of the hill I noticed that
Ingoldisthorpe Manor is no more and now a residential precinct but The Old
School building still stood majestically in its own grounds, but alas now
residential apartments. The walk to the church, still via a gravel path with
greenery on both sides, really was a walk in the past. That church was
filled on Sunday morning at the Reunion Eucharist with lusty voices singing
as though the Roger was watching from above to ensure everyone was singing
and giving it their all, for as we all know, there were no excuses for not
singing. It was then down the hill past the Church Hall where so many
Saturday film shows had taken place and, after the Reunion Eucharist, we
participated in refreshments before saying our goodbyes till we met again.
We drove on to Snettisham, that small village with a narrow little bridge on
a bend, some very tight corners and buildings close to the edge of the road.
Many years ago this was a challenge to drivers with skill and daring from
St. Michaels to safely “straight line” at speed and, especially one very
well known headmaster driving a double decker bus. Exiting the Snettisham
curves it was up the hill to Heacham – who put that roundabout there - what
a challenge that would have been in the mini to carefully apply the
handbrake to bring the rear round masterfully without reducing speed!!
Ah, a Heacham signpost, not the first turning but the
second. On the left is Stainsby’s garage, the coach company that filled in
when the school transport was left wanting or, a certain part of St.
Michael’s transport needed fixing, or straightening!! Their garage now looks
quite modern compared with the sheds and yard that were there in the late
50’s. On turning left I notice new houses have been built and on slowing to
call in at Wadsworths for 3d bag of sweets, I see that this is now an
antique shop where 3d will buy nothing. Never mind, turn right opposite the
pub – less said about that establishment the better – and up the slight hill
to the church and Shooting Lodge. The church still stands proudly on the
corner, with the big buttress on the northern side supporting the tower. The
gravel road opposite leads to the archway for the vicarage and Shooting
Lodge. At first glance not much had changed. Walking through the archway,
with the centuries old cottages either side, there are the scars of
misaligned negotiation by transport through the ages and / or, more
latterly, made by motorized transport, that may have meant a visit to the
headmaster with an explanation for a graze / dent on the wing, roof or door.
This would probably have been followed by suitable admonishment with the
plastic mac over the head exposing one’s posterior for punishment. The
vicarage still stands on the left, former home of family Pott and still
encompassed by greenery as it has been for many decades. Now one cannot
progress further up the drive way as there is a barrier across the road. So
we walk back through the archway and up the road towards Hunstanton. We can
see the back of the Lodge from the road and I exclaim to Angela with some
angst that they have demolished the dorms, that “luxurious” annex that
provided us with such “comfort and warmth” on winter nights, thanks to the
oil filled heaters when they worked properly and not incorrectly set and
smoking. At least I was under the impression it was the “heaters” smoking!!
On we drove to Old Hunstanton and the Le Strange Arms, where the wind blows
cold direct from the North Pole
I had not visited Le Strange Arms since my mother had taken me there some
40+ years ago for afternoon teas whenever she could manage a visit to the
school.
As instructed and, after checking in, we proceeded to the Mariners Bar. “We
are in here”, a voice shouts. “OK” I said, “let me get my priorities right
and get a drink first”. We round the corner to where a very select group of
people is sitting. The names came flooding back John, Cliff, Ruth, Michael,
John, Peter and others and then a person I did not know, who turns out to be
another OMA visitor from Sydney, what a small world. Then the general murmur
of the group is pierced by a voice that sounded so familiar. I knew it could
not be Roger for he had passed to a higher authority several years ago. I
glanced around and at the first glimpse the sight was unreal, it was a
younger person of the spitting image. Yes Simon, it was you. You do not have
to impersonate your father it comes naturally and, to hear that voice after
so many years gave me quite a scare, as I did not have my tie on, or rubber
mac and I had at last be caught in a pub!! That night the pre dinner drinks,
dinner and après drinks were so convivial and in such good company as to
make the whole journey so worthwhile. To you all it was so good to see such
a great gathering of people, Roger would have been proud of us all and what
we have achieved since our school days.
To John(s), Peter(s), Martin, Ruth, Michael, Geoff, Cliff, Rachael, Dawn,
Heather, Josephine, Ben, Chris, Jonathan, David, many others and the
partners who were with some of you, whose names I have absolutely no chance
of remembering, thank you so much for making our visit one not to be
forgotten. I must also say a big thank you from Angela who you all made feel
most welcome. At long last Angela understands that St.Michael’s,
Ingoldisthorpe was a different kind
of school and stories of my school days in Norfolk are not a gilded
fabrication. Till we meet again, or you come down under, thank you again,
good health to you all and goodbye for now.
Richard Munge
Sydney, Australia.
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From an OAP.......
1953 – WHAT A YEAR!!!
t
year as I was helping a Dharruk man, Greg Smith whose Father was part of the
"stolen generation" to come to terms 
st
have a great totem watching over it and on seeing the Newsletter felt that
it must be the Mitre.
Life As A Churchwarden
Simon Speaks.
