Summer Camp 2006
Scout Centrum Rotterdam Holland
Andrew Davies, Barrie Tyler and Rhydian Brewer
It was a cold, dark 10pm as we left Creigiau, huddled in a minibus. Those of us who’d brought instruments (2 guitars, a banjo, a ukulele, a keyboard, a flute and a harmonica in all) were clutching onto them, those who hadn’t may have been clutching onto ‘certain parts’ of themselves - for warmth. After 7 hours of yellow-lit motorways and deserted service stations, we got the well-needed break we deserved, hours of delay in gloomy Dover. We’re still none the wiser as to why there was a delay, perhaps the Eurostar train driver was under the impression that he was a chicken, and so an emergency hypnotist needed to be rushed in before we could depart. Perhaps we’ll never know. Nevertheless we arrived in Calais eventually and continued our great adventure storming through France, Belgium and half of Holland before reaching sunny Scout Centrum, Rotterdam.
On arrival we were greeted by Lawrence, Renske & Mark, and shown to our cabin. Considering that the usual explorer camp dwelling consists of a tent pitched on an ant’s nest/haunted Indian burial ground, the cabin was a clear sign that we were moving up in the world. The plastic covered mattresses were a nice touch, though with the toilets only ten yards away things would have to get pretty drastic for them to be called into action. After wandering around the campsite, in a vain attempt to walk off our chronic tiredness, we made use of the camp’s rowboats and paddled merrily around the algae filled canals that surrounded the camp, trying our best to ignore the disgusting smell that came with every stroke. As the evening closed in on us we built a fire, before collapsing into our beds.
Pioneering was to be our first activity (unless you count moaning about our tiredness as an activity). Some of the group decided to show off their skills by constructing a raft fit to brave the stormiest of oceans, sadly the ‘raft’ fell to pieces on contact with the placid water of the camp’s canals. The more competent and hydrophobic among the group instead erected a huge Pioneering Pyramid, atop of which we flew a Welsh flag tea towel (sadly we’d given our real flag away, but the tea towel was just as patriotic). We spent the afternoon firing arrows wide of targets into the surrounding woods, or ‘Archery’ as it’s sometimes known.
With the evening we had a good old-fashioned campfire, during which the ‘Creigiau Celts Band’ performed our version of the dance song “From Paris to Berlin” to what can be said to be a bemused, if not slightly terrified, group of scouts and explorers. During the fire we were also treated to a Dutch song, our leader was treated to a soaking by some not-so-innocent scouts, and a German scout group performed an action song about an elephant that wanted to fly – who said they don’t have a sense of humour?
After all that campfire-based excitement we spent the next day relaxing on the beach of a man-made lake. The beach, though only some 10 metres wide, was very idyllic with Dutch families relaxing in the July sunshine. Unfortunately, after the laughing, screaming, shoving and mild drowning that always accompanies a group of Explorers in water, the beach was soon left bare. We had fun all the same though, and after some football and a quick trip to an extortionate café we returned to the campsite. That evening we were in for a treat, as Andrew and Max had somehow managed to stone-bake 12 pizzas, and handcraft Domino’s pizza boxes for them. The Explorers showed their gratitude for the miracles of St. Andrew and St. Max by eating the pizza/holy manna until they felt quite ill. We ended the day by challenging some scouts from the indigenous area of ‘Bradford’ to a game of football, and somehow dismissing the confines of skill, talent, athleticism and fitness we managed to beat them. Two miracles in one evening, God was obviously feeling generous.
The following morning began with sadness, our Pioneering masterpiece, which had proudly towered over our campsite for 2 days had to be disassembled. It was a memorable event, if not only for the fact that we nearly killed ourselves bringing the colossal thing to pieces. A few hours later we were packed into the minibus and on our way to a grand Dutch day out. It began with an hour-long potter around Gouda; there we saw an amazingly intricate clock in the town centre chime and play-out a scene involving a 12inch king being handed a scroll by his 12inch servant. When this spectacular event had ceased, we gave a huge cheer and round of applause, which was greeted by extremely dodgy looks from the locals. Having scared the people of Gouda quite enough, we drove towards a Cheese Farm and our magical journey through the cheese making process began. With the head cheese-maker of the farm as our guide we saw cheese from its humble whey-y beginnings, right up until it had reached full maturity, and was ready to leave the nest and fly away to a near by supermarket. Before continuing on our Dutch adventure we bought enough cheese from her shop to secure a good pension for all of her grandchildren. The next, and final stop was a windmill farm. Here, perhaps unsurprisingly, we saw windmills and also learnt of their importance to Holland, i.e. stopping parts of Holland becoming parts of the sea. After clambering to the top of a Windmill we decided we’d had enough culture for one day and trundled back to the campsite for a well-deserved rest.
Having basked in Dutch sunshine for the first part of the week we gave our immune system a thorough shake-up that Wednesday by visiting a minus 5°c snow-dome. The place was well equipped, with a training slope, a snow staircase and several ramps. Perhaps the most memorable part of the trip came when Lench, having learnt to ski just 3 hours earlier, braved the biggest of these ramps. Having promised himself to take it slow he proceeded to hurtle himself toward, and up this giant ramp. On reaching the top he filled the snow-dome with his scream of “F***!” before flying clumsily off, and landing arse first in the snow. Bruised and happy after our 4-hour snow-fest we headed towards the centre of Amsterdam. On reaching there, something primal must have taken over in our leader’s minds as they immediately started marching their group of loyal, innocent and slightly baffled scout troop through the dark alleys and past the ‘specialist’ shops that epitomise Amsterdam. Thirty minutes into our ‘educational-hike’ we had reached the famous Red Light District, and what lurked behind some of those red-lit windows is likely to have scared some of the troop off prostitutes, if not women in general, for a long while.
We woke up at 7 the next morning with the promise of Kite-Boarding, but sadly, after searching an entire beach, it was clear that the Kite-Boarding instructor had forgotten all about us, poor us. Not ones to be easily disheartened though; we regrouped back at the campsite, and decided that Go-Karting was as good a replacement as any to Kite-Boarding. Before being strapped into our ‘Carts’, all seemed well, everyone chatting flippantly, “I don’t mind who wins”, “I just hope I’m not last!”, etc. It was only when we started driving that these previously cool, uncompetitive Scouts turned into insane racing machines. There were some among us, Huw and Andrew (our leader!) to name just two, who’s driving styles were akin to those of Michael Schumacher, if he were at the wheel of a tank. There were others who were slightly less competitive, and happy to watch the race go by from the comfort of the tyre barriers. Huw won the race, and received an enviable trophy, though a straightjacket would have probably been a more fitting reward for his driving. We spent the night entranced by our campfire’s flames, all of us realising that our last day was nearly here.
This was the day we’d all been waiting for, our chance to experience the rusting, unstable and dangerous feat of engineering that is the Dutch bike. After breakfast we got to choose our ‘rides’, there were some beautiful pieces of metal among the selection. I was quite pleased with my bike, a ‘Raleigh Tourist’ in metallic maroon; fitted with breaks, though I soon found that praying was a much more reliable and affective way to slow down than actually applying the ‘breaks’, and a seat, which could swivel 180 degrees. Basically the bell was the only part of it that worked, and it is very important to have a good bell, when you can’t stop. That afternoon, armed with our stunning bikes, we rode into Rotterdam. Here we found, among other things, a giant Pepsi can, a Chinese takeaway and a robotic busker stuck 20 metres above the pavement onto the side of a building. The sights of Rotterdam; eccentric, eclectic and crazy epitomised the Dutch’s attitude to life quite well. After an hour or so in the city we dodged cars, pedestrians and senile cyclists making our way back to camp.
The final activity of the camp was the quintessentially Dutch past time of Bowling. The walls of the Bowling alley were painted with a landscape of meadows and farmlands, whilst the lighting of the place gave it the atmosphere of a seedy nightclub, this bowling alley could only be Dutch really. Putting the mismatched surroundings out of our minds we bowled up a storm, with plenty of strikes and spares among the gutter balls, fouls and splits.
After a short cycle back we had our last supper. There was no wine or bread or even a Son of God around to clean our feet. It was a last supper nonetheless, after which we chatted, read and strummed until midnight. The time had come to say our farewells to Lawrence, Renske & Mark and to begin our tired trip home.
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