Can a virtual school trip match up to the real thing?

In the latest of his reflections on place and pathway, Will Gore goes queasy at the memory of a disastrous visit to Calais during which there was a shameful incident at a hypermarket

Sea legs were in short supply on the ferry over (Dietrich Krieger)

Digital technology has made many things possible in these months of coronavirus lockdown. But there are still limits: meetings via Zoom or Skype just aren’t as effective as getting together in person; homeschooling, even in the internet age, is no match for children being taught by real teachers in real classrooms.

This week I saw a former colleague describing on social media how her child’s headteacher had announced plans for a virtual school trip. For everyone who feels upset at their children’s continued absence from formal education, the idea that a jolly day out to some natural wonder or historical site can be suitably replaced with a video and a bit of online chit-chat is particularly heartbreaking.

But then I thought back to my own experience of school trips – admittedly quite a long time ago – and I began to wonder if in some circumstances a virtual visit might not actually be preferable.

It is fair to acknowledge that my memories may be clouded by my particular dread of coach travel, which as a child was almost guaranteed to make me sick. It wasn’t just the physical sensation; I used to get intensely anxious about the whole affair, which meant I was on the edge anyway. But there was something about the smoothness of travelling on a coach that inevitably set me off.

The annual day trip to France was an especial bete noire. Looking back, I realise how utterly pointless the whole thing was anyway: none of us ended up practising our French, and we were barely there for enough time to do so even had we had the inclination. It never occurred to me that the whole thing might be merely a well-disguised booze cruise for our teachers’ benefit.

It was the jaunt to Calais in Year 8 that sticks in the memory most painfully. We left school at the crack of dawn and within about half an hour I’d already chundered – into a sick bag I should add. I spent the ride to Dover sitting at the front with the teachers, feeling too wretched even to be embarrassed about it.

The weather was grim and the sea crossing was hideous. Oddly, I could cope with the rolling ferry perfectly well and watched as my classmates regretted scoffing their lunches early and puked their own guts up.

Behind me were a couple of more or less empty shelves. I couldn’t just discard a bag of sick there could I?

Yet as soon as we got back on the coach, I was the one requiring another paper bag to vomit in. By this time, I had little left in my stomach, but some hearty retching still managed to produce a bit of watery bile.

To be quite truthful, I have no idea where we actually stopped. It may well have been Calais itself, or perhaps a nearby town; but it barely mattered because we didn’t really do anything, aside from wander around the streets aimlessly and fill in a banal worksheet.

We definitely popped into a hypermarket. I know this because I was still clutching my sick bag, which by then had taken on the form of a substitute comfort blanket. However, comfort blankets made of paper and containing syrupy vomit are not designed to last, and I realised to my horror that it was now leaking.

“Merde alors!”, I thought to myself. “Ce n’est pas bon.”

I looked around, panicking, as my friends perused the sweet aisles. Behind me were a couple of more or less empty shelves. I couldn’t just discard a bag of sick there could I?

“Mais oui.”

And so there it was left, for some poor French supermarket worker to find – or worse, to merely shove to the back of the shelf to make space for some fresh pastries. Forget your croissant monsieur, try our new pain au vomi!

I didn’t throw up on the way home. My stomach was empty, my shame complete.

Still, I was a 12-year-old boy, so I soon cheered up, especially when it became clear that the previously brave lads who had somehow managed to procure some light pornography and, in one case, a small flick-knife, were now fretting that they would be arrested by police at the border.

We sang songs, laughed a lot, and got home close to midnight. It had, by every possible measure, been a truly appalling day; but when push comes to shove, I’m still not sure I would exchange it for a virtual alternative.