All Good Things Come to an End

All in all my first camp was a bit of a nightmare. I had a class containing a child who spent the majority of his time on the desk and not sitting quietly on his chair; my final show was based on a highly complex story my kids had told about the Loch Ness Monster - to this day I'm not entirely sure where they got it from; things had got a little strained between Wickham and Lydia and the rest of us; and I still had very little idea what I was doing.

I knew that I probably wouldn't choose to do the programme again - just because it was highly stressful and only made palatable by my amazing family. I didn't want to risk having a bad camp and an equally bad family. So with this in mind, I made my peace with teaching and I taught my last class, resigned to the fact that it would be just that - my last class.

(For those that enjoy irony, you might want to read about what happens one year on...)

Therefore, with the Loch Ness Monster play still ringing in my ears, I left the school and went home with my family. Some of the other tutors were moving onto new camps the following morning, Kitty, Lydia and myself were finished (in more ways than one). We'd only signed up to a 2-week teaching contract after orientation, but we could stay in a little village (part-owned by the man who pulled the strings at the company) for another week if we wanted a little holiday.

Kitty and Lydia decided that this is where they were headed. As the fortnight had gone on, I actually got really close to Kitty, even though my first impression was that we weren't really that compatible. I too wanted to go with them, but I also wanted to spend some more time with my amazing family.

In the interests of killing two birds with one stone - watch out for the birds in the next post - I thought that if I ask for another weekend with my family, I can train over to Sanremo on the Monday and then meet up with Kitty and head on up to this mythical mountain-top village with her. That way I didn't need to lug my stuff over with everyone else and I could say a proper goodbye to my fam.

I put it to them. They were thrilled that I wanted to stay a bit longer. I, as you may remember, am more than happy to just relax. My family operated using a different philosophy and so decided that my last weekend with them should be special. (I wanted to stress to them that it had all been special - the Garda road trip, the out-of-body experience of watching X:Men Origins: Wolverine at the castle in Brescia, embarrassing myself on two wheels in front of a bella vista...) Anyway they wanted to make my last weekend extra special.

We were going into the mountains...

Adventures on Two Wheels

Though I parted from my fellow tutors on Saturday evening, Sunday had much excitement in store as the rest of the weekend was devoted to getting to know our respective families. I was treated to a visit to Mont Isola.

In the middle of Lago d'Iseo there is a large pimple of an island - that said it really is spectacular. Considering it was my first taste of 'traditional' Italian beauty in a long time, it lived up to expectations.

To visit the island you have to get across by ferry, which we duly did, and then to see as much of the island as possible you have to hire bikes.

Imagine the scene - the weather is, let's say 'close', and we're cycling up, let's say a 'mountain' - pleasant. But not content with leaving it there, let's add something else to the mix: a fly, some vanity, and an epic downward slope. What difference do they make, you may be wondering. Well, much water has passed under the bridge since and I'm still bearing the scars.

It really was quite funny really. On said slope a fly flew into my personal space and not wanting to get the mother of all insect bites on my face I tried to bat it away - BIG mistake. In order to temper the rapid acceleration I had just experienced I thought I had better pull on the back brake. Problem. Which one is the back brake? This one? No, so it must be... this one? Yes! Oh, wait, no... oops. Face full of gravel.

Well done. Day two with the host fam and I've already shown myself to be completely irresponsible and lacking in what most people would call 'common sense': cue explanation of the term 'blonde' over dinner.

I felt really bad for embarrassing the fam in feeling embarrassed for me. I was totally fine about it - to own the truth I found it rather amusing. If I'd had an audience I would have expected them to laugh.

So that evening I elected to keep a low profile and prepare myself for 5 uninterrupted days of English camp fun - easy, especially when (I think to draw attention to my stupidity) my family had put an attractive red dye on my wounds. Smooth.