I am not even sure if they do it nowadays. It's just downright mucky and you would not want to return home after doing it clearly showing signs of having done it. My Mother was always shocked when sorting through my laundry and finding the badly soiled and stained smalls. They usually had to be boil washed perhaps more than once. As for my plimsolls there was nothing worse for their sparkling Meltonian whiteness than taking part in cross country running at school.
It was a major part of the winter P.E Curriculum at our Grammar School but would not today get through what is called a Risk Assessment. The implications for insurance premiums, litigation and letters from parents would just be too much for most fully staffed admin departments in our larger educational establishments. It was regarded by the hierachy of the very traditional school founded in the 17th century as being character forming. Not surprising as its Founder is attributed with the symbolism of the Red Hand of Ulster in that he severed off his own limb simply to be able to claim to be the first to landfall in that part of Ireland in those early colonial times.I wonder if he appreciated how much trouble would ensue from the choice of a bloody lopped off appendage as livery on flags and banners in that part of the world. Other Old Boys of the school no doubt rode with the Light Brigade, fought at Rourkes Drift, paddled about in the first world war trenches and went on any number of ill fated expeditions and interventions. Just because it was peace in our time it was deemed that we should not miss out on an activity clearly intended to kill or at least maim us.
The whole thing ran on complete trust between 50 of us pupils and 2 Games Masters. We would be let loose in a mass start from outside the changing rooms before a mad dash down the school driveway and then as soon as we were out of sight of the supervising staff we would slow to a leisurely jog seeking to prolong as much as possible some time out of the claustrophobic classrooms and back to back lessons. There were a few very enthusiastic types who just disappeared over the horizon for the prestige amongst themselves of completing the course first. They gave the rest of us a bad name.
The sheer lung busting effort of the driveway dash would cause a few undignified cases of retching and dry vomiting . The first hundred yards or so would expose the smokers and asthmatics in our number. The former group would later be visible in the rearguard of the run or rather recognisable by a haze of cigarette smoke in the distance. A bit like the effect produced by a steam engine approaching on full pelt. The latter usually had to give up and were often taken back to school in a Masters car or by ambulance to the town infirmary. Conscientious Objectors were not recognised even those in possession of a note from their mother although this attitude displayed would now, no doubt ,constitute a matter for the Court of Human Rights.
The tried and tested route for a cross country session took us past the local bakery and a chip shop and the training regime of some of our group, those of larger bodily frame included stopping off and stocking up with supplies. We would soon be past the council estate and then into open country. Leaving the outskirts of the town we would have to cross from nicely surfaced roads and footways onto an old muddy farmtrack. This was very heavy going and after only a quarter of mile, even on a slightly moist day, we would soon resemble escapees from a swamp. A few quagmire patches would not only suck out our resolve to get around the course but also claim our footwear and it was necessary to frantically grovel about in the mud looking for the odd plimsoll. Reduced to a stockinged foot these would becoming increasingly matted and heavy with the clay and the necessary hopping action would only make things worse.
As the lane came to an end we would swing right back to resume on a footpath. This ran alongside the very busy main road into the town . Fortunately the only crossing requirements were residential driveways as otherwise there was good potential for mayhem and carnage with gasping, red faced, wheezy boys having no regard for basic road safety. Damn you Tufty.
We had about a quarter of a mile to compose ourselves before passing the High School for Girls. The transition from being close to deaths door to super cool athletism was a sight to be appreciated. There were always groups of female students hanging about the gated entrance either waiting for a bus or chatting to older lads who sat astride their little Yamaha motorbikes. Those of us left on the run would cruise by with as much ease as we could pretend. Again out of sight farther down the road we would revert to an exhausted , sweaty and wholly unattractive bunch of adolescent youngsters.
The final approach to school was invariably reminiscent of a zombie movie with the almost dead crawling and struggling back to the prospect of a tepid communal shower. The cross country run was usually the last session of the day . Hoping not to be seen I would just collect my clothes and bags and set off home and avoid the obsessive behaviour of the duty Master to see a lot of boys naked.
My mud caked legs would make it difficult and uncomfortable to even walk home but by the next morning most of it had fallen off in my bed and through the rest of the house.
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