Brownsea Island - school ordeals and Lord Baden-Powell's lasting achievement

Let me say at once that I was never a Girl Guide, nor aspired to be one. Service and adventure? No thanks. The entire idea of learning outdoor skills, camping out in rough countryside, and jostling communally with keen young people who enjoyed togetherness, uniforms and badges, was a turnoff. As was scrupulously observing all kinds of strange rituals, discipline, and swearing oaths to Queen and Country. Fun and thrills were supposed to be on offer, but I was a cat who walked alone, wanting to do her own thing, and I hated to join in. I have always been like this. Co-operative and helpful, certainly - at least up to a point - but never a team player. The ethos of Scouting and Guiding was unattractive. It was too much like the straitjacket of school. 

My grammar school in Southampton had a rule that all those in the Second Form must participate in an annual New Forest Camp. It was 1964, and I was twelve at the time. I did not want to go. In fact I dreaded going. But it was compulsory. As expected, it wasn't comfortable nor in any way congenial: draughty bell tents, hard ground to sleep on, smelly latrines, flies, stodgy porridge, silly childish chatter and squabbles, only vaguely interesting natural history studies. The only relief was that halfway along one's parents could come and whisk one away to a tea shop, or perhaps to the seaside, for an afternoon. My Mum and Dad turned up on time like the Seventh Cavalry, and I was delighted to find that they had brought me a packet of my favourite jam tarts as a treat, for which I was almost tearfully thankful. Clearly they loved me! They also tempted me: Mum said, would I like to come home and spend my few hours of freedom there? She'd cook me something nice. I almost yielded. I was sorely tested. But I knew that if I went home, I wouldn't return. And that would be a massive cop-out with serious consequences once back at school. So, despite knowing that those last days would now be even more unbearable, I resolutely confined myself to an ice cream at Mudeford, and nothing more. And when I was dropped off at Bramshaw, I bravely waved goodbye, squared my narrow shoulders, gritted my teeth, and walked back into boot camp without flinching.  

That experience didn't actually kill me. Indeed, it boosted my standing in school. I mentioned childish squabbles, inevitable when kids are confined together. Well, there were one or two savages who vented their malice with taunts and teasing. Most of the time, this could be put up with and ignored. But on one occasion, the teasing came in my direction and it went too far. I wouldn't stand for it, and kicked out decisively, inflicting real pain, then stalked away. Word got around in a flash, and for the rest of the duration - and for a bit once back in class - I was treated like a badass Ninja warrior, a touchy nemesis to be feared. I anticipated instant punishment from the teachers. But none came, although I detected some speculative looks on their part as I queued for my evening gruel. I got away with it. 

For the record, I wasn't constantly at odds with my school chums. Far from it. I maintained a low and innocuous profile if I possibly could. But I had to assert myself occasionally. I did so as if I meant it. It was clear that tough words - or no-nonsense physical actions, if necessary - got noticed, and brought me respect. Other kids weren't sure about me. I was normally easy-going, but could be touchy, and might bite back. So I wasn't a victim of bullying at school. Certainly not in the intense and rather horrible way it's done now, with the victims mentally shredded with overwhelming vileness on social media. Like most pupils, I was sometimes a random target for aggravating behaviour, but I had no scruples about retaliation. School life in the 1950s and 1960s. The chief lesson, learned early: it's always best to stand up for yourself, even against people bigger and stronger. They may knock you down, but after that they leave you alone.  

The New Forest Camp in 1964 wasn't the last compulsory school experience akin to Scouting or Guiding. 

In 1967, as part of my A Level Geography course, I had to spend a weekend at a field centre in Stubbington on the Solent. This time, not in a tent. It was indoors, a dormitory affair. But my aversion to groupthink and being organised had intensified, so once again I hated going. The weekend was redeemed by being the very moment the BBC replaced their Light Programme, Third Programme and Home Service with Radios One, Two, Three and Four. We all had our little transistor radios, and we all excitedly tuned in to Radio One. Ex-pirate DJs like Tony Blackburn, and visiting exotics like Emperor Rosko, were now presenting 'official' pop music programmes! Listening to the new Radio One was pretty well all I can remember about that weekend, apart from coming home to watch the opening episode of The Prisoner on TV, Patrick McGoohan's enigmatic captivity thriller. 

Then in 1969, again as part of my A Level Geography course, I spent a week on the Isle of Arran in the Firth of Clyde. Unfortunately with only my ultra-basic Kodak Instamatic 50 camera, and a few frames of a film to use up. I did not keep the very few half-hearted shots that I took. I didn't want to be reminded. It was a Field Trip to see and study igneous geology and the effects of glaciation. Thankfully, we were based at a study centre at Lamlash, with proper dormitories and other facilities. I managed to avoid being billeted with the smokers. Yes, some of the students (as we were termed by then) were into puffing away on nasty super-cheap cigarettes called Sovereigns, which as a non-smoker was a big no-no for me. Fortunately got myself switched to a chalet in the grounds which I shared with a friend who, like me, was fanatical about The Beatles, then in their interesting final phase as a band. Although I can't show photos, I well recall that week. It involved long arduous treks up the sides of glaciated valleys and over scarily high mountain ridges, just to see some feature and sketch it, while the Geography teachers - a team of three - explained what we were looking at. Later, in the evening, we had to write up the day's fact-finding. 

It was essentially a test of fitness and endurance. Eventually I protested at the length of the daily treks and the amount of rock-climbing we were expected to do. I wasn't too embarrassed to speak up. On one afternoon, I opted out altogether, spending time chatting with our friendly coach driver at a place called Thundergay, then walking up a fragrant heather-clad hillside to sit by myself in the sun, while I gazed westward over the sea to Kintyre. A gorgeous panorama! I stayed there a long time. So much better than toiling up a mountainside to examine some shallow little loch in a corrie. 

Not every day was an exhausting route-march into Arran's mountainous interior. I enjoyed the days when we looked at raised beaches and dykes on Arran's sandy coast. But even better was the day we went home. 

By the way, despite my dislike of that Arran experience, I still got the topmost grade, with distinction, at the A Level Geography examination in 1970. If I could achieve that, without using my skimpy Stubbington or Arran notes, what then was the point of these Field Trips?   

Readers should by now have a good grasp of what I think of communal 'adventure holidays' involving canvass tents or spartan dormitories, and what my lifelong attitude to Scouting and Guiding might be. Or, for that matter, Youth Hostelling. I agree that my attitude is flawed, and that when young I could have shown more flexibility. I could have given it all a proper go. I admit I was negative and lacking in the proper spirit. But I was honest with myself: none of it harmonised with my nature. Nor was I a chronic complainer. I simply hated discomfort, missed my usual life, and above all resented being told to do things against my inclination. I might comply, most of the time, but only because I had to. I stoutly rejected compulsion, regimentation and unnecessary hardship. 

And have never recanted or changed my mind. 

I was therefore never going to be an admirer of what Lord Baden-Powell achieved on Brownsea Island in 1907. Still, here I was in 2025. On the island at last. I might as well see what Scouting and Guiding was all about. It had lasted 118 years and was still going strong. It was a chance to learn more about it. 

The exhibition in the 'village' had a section on Lord Baden-Powell, and outside, on the way to the Outdoor Centre dedicated to him, were several other memorials to his Brownsea Island experiment in 1907, and its legacy. (Click on these shots to enlarge them)

I suppose Baden-Powell felt that young people of the day urgently needed leadership and inspiration. Scouting done this way would steer ordinary teenagers towards proven military-style habits, develop fitness and self-assurance, give them 'how to' skills, and instil a liking for camp life in the Great Outdoors. It's hard to dispute the benefits of this, in the circumstances of 1907. War with Germany was on the minds of people in the know, and young scouts might well become junior army officers a few years down the line. But in any case, Scouting (and soon, Guiding too) had a clear social usefulness, bringing youngsters together in an orderly way, and introducing them to like-minded youngsters from all over the world. Well, it clearly succeeded. 

So much for the exhibition panels. There was more outside. Another panel, and a bust of Baden-Powell in scouting pose.

Adjacent was a metal shape on the ground that you could put your foot in, to see whether you had what it takes to follow in the great man's footsteps. I had a go.

Look at that! I was worthy!

Inspired, I walked on into the island, aiming for the scene of that pioneering encampment in 1907, and whatever else lay there, such as a memorial to Scouting, the Baden-Powell Outdoor Centre, a Scout Shop, and a Café. 

If this was the original campsite, it had become much more wooded. There were pine needles aplenty on the ground. Tents of various kinds, all ready for occupation, presumably by visiting scouts. (And perhaps hired by ordinary island visitors wanting overnight accommodation). Nearby, on a knoll, was a large Memorial Stone. I climbed up there to look at it. Other visitors were doing the same. It was clearly an essential place of pilgrimage. 

I had a jolly chat with one couple, Diane and John, who kindly took a picture of me by the Stone with LXV.  

Nearby a party of National Trust volunteers were working hard in the hot sunshine. Unglamorous but important stuff.

This reminded me - as if I needed reminding - that I required some refreshment. So downhill again to the friendly Outdoor Centre, and a delicious ice cream. While I consumed it, a peacock walked slowly around the picnic tables, with a hopeful look in his eye. I think it was food he was after, not a mate, because at no point did he do his courtship display. 

Before moving on, I checked out the Scout Shop. It was pure curiosity. Clearly another much-visited place, full of colourful scouting paraphernalia. One keen youngster was there with his parents, choosing some article he needed.

Was this for sale, or was it a display of items left by visiting scouts and guides from all over the world? Those neck-scarves (or whatever they are called) must foster a very strong local identity and sense of belonging. There was much else to see. I peered at it, quietly took my photos, and stole away.

Ah, Bear Grylls. I've come across him before - see my post Bear Grylls, and a lesson in kissing gates on 17th January 2019. 

Outside, and nailed to posts, were bits of wood with the names of faraway places on them. The Scouting Movement was truly global.

Well, that was that. I'd come, I'd seen, and I was willing to salute. But I could leave the tents and the toggles behind. The rest of the island beckoned - and the thing I'd chiefly come to see. Next post.

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