The offer of Awards to young people by the Duke of Edinburgh is an expression of His Royal Highness' belief that all young people should be given the fullest opportunities and encouragement to make the best use of their leisure, by taking part in activities which are both enjoyable and character building.

This scheme embodies a variety of such activities, to which certain standards of achievement have been attached; these standards provide targets to which boys can aspire, in stages between the ages of 14 and 19.

The standards are intended to match average abilities; they are not set so as to favour only those who are naturally gifted. They shoulld be within the reach of most boys, provided that the boys make the effort.

By going in for these activities, boys will be acquiring self-reliance; it is their talents in the service of others.

Boys under 15 prepare for the First Series of tests which can earn a Letter of Commendation and a Bronze Badge.

If over 15 they can still attempt the First Series. It has been agreed however that boys over 15 may, at the discretion of the Experimenting Authorities, enter directly for the Second Series.

This Second Series must be successfully completed before an attempt can be made on the Third Series.

In each series, there are four sections, each of a different nature of activity. All sections must be undertaken, and the required standards reached in each, to merit the commendations of the awards.

These sections are:—

1. Rescue and Public Service Training.
2. The Expedition.
3. Pursuits.
4. Fitness.

The standards in these sections vary in difficulty according to the series being undertaken The following boys have entered for the Scheme:—

Peter Pond, Norman Pletts, Roger Stoney, Bruce Love, Bernard Horton, Olive Wood, Anthony Mullen, Roy Hammond, Gregory Bailey, Robert Walton, Roger Mantle, Alan Ford, Colin Cole, Derek Bishop, Walter Attwood, John Guast, John Holmes, Stewart Taylor and Kevin Dowling.

These boys have been receiving instruction in map reading, first aid, life-saving, fitness and sailing and it is hoped that most if not all of them will win an award during the Summer Term.

21

The first trip to Ghajn Tuffieha will go down as the wettest, most dismal saga since Napoleon's retreat from Moscow.

The camp began early in February, when one Friday evening after school, Mr. Cleaver and Mr. Parker, looking like a pair of Pied Pipers, clambered onto a bus closely followed by about 20 boys wearing rucksacks.

The sky was overcast, and the wind was chilly so most of the boys wore jeans, while a few hardier ones wore shorts.

As the bus started, we remembered^that it was only going to take us so far and then we were to walk! So as we neared the top of each hill there were murmurs of, 'This is it,' but the bus didn't stop. We neared Rabat, and then passed it, each revolution of the wheels taking us nearer to our goal.

Suddenly we were standing in a lane, and the bus had gone. Mr. Cleaver pointed us towards Ghajn Tuffieha and said 'Single file', and so, spread across the road in two's and three's, we straggled off.

On arriving at the camping site, which was on the edge of the assault course, we set about putting up tents, collecting stoves from the N.A.A.F.I. and cooking our evening meals over primuses.

By about 7.30 it was pitch dark and so the only thing left to do was to go to 'bed'. The three of us in my tent, Greg. Bailey, Bill Sales and myself quickly settled down to sleep, but many of the other boys went to the cinema up in the Army camp. It was at about this time that it first tried to rain. It rained for two or three minutes and then had a rest for about 15, while it gathered strength for another attempt. At what time in the night it really settled down to rain I do not know, but when I awoke in the morning I was the only dry person in the tent. I had slept in the middle and was perfectly dry while Greg who was 'up the slope' acted as blotting paper and sopped up any water making for me. When I looked at Bill I found that he was stretched out gently snoozing, oblivious to the fact that he was 'kipping' in four inches of water. Greg and I managed to wake him up and (after giving him artificial respiration) started to wring his bedding out as it was sopping wet. All this was done in the tent as it was still pouring outside. At about 8 o'clock, Mr. Cleaver gave the order, 'Abandon Camp' and so we packed our rucksacks and beat a hasty retreat through the pouring rain to a barrack hut which had been requisitioned for us, there to dump our kits and return for the tents. Then we had breakfast and some even washed.

The whole morning was spent in lounging about in bunks and preparing meals. That afternoon, when the rain had stopped, a ball was kicked around by a few sporty types, while I and two or three others went for a walk along the cliffs to return in time for tea.

After tea, some went outside to play games, but Paul Gurney, myself and a few others stayed inside and swopped lies until we all finally went to bed.

Next morning saw no great buzz of activity. People got up when they felt like it, cooked their breakfast when they felt like it (we had burnt porridge) send washed if they felt like it.

After breakfast, we packed our rucksacks and moved out. We were to walk to the Salt Pans and then we could make our own ways home.

On reaching the Salt Pans we split into two groups, those whose parents came for them and those who walked. I was among those who walked.

I can vaguely remember walking a bit, and sitting down a bit and then walking a bit more, until at about 3 o'clock I stumbled into the house.

I had a bath, changed my clothes and had a meal and I was about to leave the house when my mother said "Where are you going?" "Just for a walk".

The third trip to Ghajn Tuffleha was easily the most strenuous, and the ' weather certainly the warmest. It was 9.30 one Saturday morning, about 10 days before we were due to go to Italy, when 21 boys and five masters set off from Spinola bus terminus to walk to Ghajn Tuffieha. In pairs we marched up the hill out of the bay towards St. Andrews, through St. Patricks and on to Palm Beach where we cut inland, climbed up to the Victoria Lines (with a full pack this is no joke) and followed the lines to Mosta bridge where we sat down to have a 10 minutes breather.

By this time the sun was well up when we set off to the Chadwick Lakes, those of us (myself included) who were wearing rubbberized wind-cheaters, were wishing that we had left them at home. We arrived at the lakes to find that we had 'mislaid' Mr. Cleaver, Mr. Bletcher, Mr. Ross (from Verdala) and Curtis, Cole and Wood. As we had now covered 9 or 10 miles, the thought of returning to look for them was received with little enthusiasm.

We started off again, and after staggering up and stumbling down countless small hills, we managed to make our sticky, perspiring way to within two miles of Ghajn Tuffleha where we stopped for an hour in a field by the road, to eat the sandwiches we had brought for lunch.

We had been there for perhaps half-an-hour when up walked the three missing masters to explain that Curtis had been taken ill and so he and his partners-in-tent had been sent ahead on a bus. Thus it was in a party comprising of 18 boys and five masters that we finally reached Ghajn Tuffieha at 3 o'clock that afternoon.

Nobody had much energy left, but a few of us wandered down to lie on the beach till tea-time.

After tea, we, the boys, went down to the restaurant on the beach, where we discovered that we had not left civilization completely, for here was a jukebox, and so we spent- a very pleasant evening playing records.

By 7 o'clock next morning, everyone was up and about, preparing breakfast, and at about 9 o'clock we moved off to retrace our steps to Spinola.

The great heat of the day before had caused the island to expand and so
the distance was greater, as was the heat.

We stopped at our stopping places of the day before, apart from the fact that we crossed the Mosta Valley instead of climbing Victoria Lines.

At about 2.30 we reached Palm beach where we split up and set off at intervals to avoid congestion on the coast road.

Once upon a time (as in the style of all the best fairy tales) 24 boys, of average age 15 and five masters, went to Italy — where it rained. This is the sad, damp tale.

I would like it to be known that we left on All Fools' Day. No further comment.

At 4 o'clock in the evening we were taken from Customs House steps by M.F.V. to the "Citta di Livorno" which was to take us to Sicily.

The only incident of note which took place on the ship was when the crane, which was unloading the ship dropped several hundred bottles about 40 feet down into the hold of the ship, entertaining the boys greatly.

We walked straight through the Customs at Syracuse with no trouble and marched through the town; some of us staggered but mostly we marched through the town to the station where we boarded what was for some, the first train in years. We stayed on this train all through Sicily across the Straits of Messina by train ferry and up the West coast of Italy to Salerno where, at 9 o'clock that night we piled off, shouldered our packs (let it be known that mine was by far the heaviest) and set off to pitch our tents right outside the town.

At Midnight we were still walking, for one small point was overlooked, there was no where to pitch a tent; all was rock and cliff-face along the road which we were following. To our right, the cliffs came right down to the road, and to our left the road fell away several hundred feet to the sea.

At 1 o'clock that morning we located two small areas of rock and foul smelling vegetation where we hurriedly 'threw' the tents up. Paul Gurney, Bob Bruce and I were greatly elated to find that we had put ours up inside-out which meant that all the ropes were inside! However at 1-15 we managed to get to sleep, to be awakened after what seemed about five minutes by Mr. Bletcher, who said that it was 6 o'clock and time to get up.

Bob Bruce and I walked into the fishing village of Cetara where we obtained fresh water, and on our return we ate what Paul Gurney was pleased to call breakfast. After washing up we broke camp and started marching again.

Travelling along an Italian coast road is really something to write home about, as the bitter .truth is, for no five minutes do you walk in the same direction! The whole Western sea-board is a series of S-bends and it is not at all surprising to look down over the edge of the road to find yourself walking back along the way you have just come, only several hundred feet higher. The roads wind so much, that after a few days you may find yourself walking sideways.

We walked on and on, through Maiori, Minor! and Atrani to Amain, where watched by half the population of the town, we pitched camp on the beach.

The Italian pastime of watching is not at all like the ancient Anglo-Saxon sport of watching workmen dig holes. The Italian spectators stand in silent groups anything up to two feet away and stare at you with blank expression, lustreless eyes and open, drooling mouths and show not the slightest sign of embarrassment if you stare at them.

That night the camp was divided in two and we took it in turns to look after the tents while the other half went into town.

That morning we broke camp and marched into town where we were again divided into two groups. One was to go by lorry as it had begun to pour with rain (and was destined to do so all day) and the other was to walk the 10 miles to Positano. I managed to secure a place on the lorry and so at about 11 o'clock we arrived in Positano. At about 4 o'clock that afternoon, the other half, soaking wet taut surprisingly cheerful, staggered into the cafe where we were sitting sipping our umpteenth cup of coffee. We soon discovered why they were so cheerful; apparently Mr. Cleaver had said, "Those who ride to-day, walk tomorrow", and so I sincerely believe that, before he went to bed that night, each and everyone of the boys that walked prayed for rain on the following day.

Obviously we could not put tents up in the pouring rain and so we hired three rooms in a Pensione (nothing to do with old age) and there the 29 of us slept that night.

You may think that we were bored stiff, but we had plenty of laughs, as for example, when Cole stood up in his sleeping bag and tied the laces round his neck. Someone pushed him and he fell on the place where the two beds, which had been pushed together, met. As he hit the beds, I pulled one away from the other and when he fell between the beds I pushed them together again. This, of course, gave everybody a giggle at the sight of Cole jammed between  the two beds, unable to move because of his sleeping bag, and looking like a sardine between two pieces of bread. All good clean fun.

Saturday, 5th April.

Although the rain that morning was not torrential, it was decidedly damp, and so no one walked (much to the disgust of some) but all boarded a hired bus which took us 10 miles over the mountains to Sorrento and, I might add, not once during my stay in Sorrento did I see one single, solitary seagull. We were not going to stop in Sorrento itself, but went three or four miles outside' to a place called Meta (Mate-ah) where we took over an entire billet in a Youth Hostel.

That night we got a bus which resembled a tram, down to Sorrento, where most of us bought our presents and souvenirs, the most popular of these being, musical boxes and cameo brooches.

Sunday, 6th April.

That morning we were due to set off on a day trip to Capri (known to all Lancastrian's as 'Oracle's place') and so at about 10.30 we again caught the bus to Sorrento and at the quay side boarded the ferry which was to take us to Capri. The ferry was about the size of the 'Star of Malta', and it was only a thirty minute voyage, but I don't think I have ever been so ill in my life.

On reaching the quay at Capri, fourteen of us climbed onto (not into, onto) a five seater car and were driven up the hill to the .town of Capri. As the car was a convertible, three of us sat on the folded-down hood, and I faced backwards for most of the journey, not because I was afraid to look, but because I was holding on the driver's mate, who was balanced on the rear bumper.

We spent a very pleasant day sight-seeing and then caught the ferry back to Sorrento, to arrive in Meta at about 5.30.

 Monday, 7th April.

The sky was heavily overcast that morning as we set off to walk the fourteen miles to Castellemmare, and before we had walked many miles it began to pour with rain. We had lunch that day in a barn by the road and when the rain had stopped, set off again. But once more we had not gone far when it started to rain again. Although we had groundsheets on, they did not keep us dry as they were used mostly to keep the packs dry. Many of us wore Jeans, and after a few miles in the pouring rain they became part of our legs, almost a second skin, and when they became too wet to hold any more, the rain ran straight through them (we wore 'drainpipe' jeans) and into our shoes.

Eventually we made our soggy, saturated way into Castellemare where it was decided that it was too wet to camp, and so we would push on to what was to have been tomorrow's camping site. It was only eight miles to walk, but everyone had had enough and so we fought our way onto a train.

For the sake of brevity I have merely put 'we fought our way' onto a train. If anyone should want to hear the whole story of that fight, let him ask someone who went on the trip.

We got off the train in Boscotrecase and marched through the town to our camping site at the bottom of Vesuvius.

Whenever we passed through a town, the inhabitants came running up and asked 'Deutsch?'. If it was a fairly big town we might be asked if we were German a dozen times before we got into the country again. I longed to march through a town whistling the Horst Wessell Song but at no time during the trip could I remember it, and so I just had to suffer their patter which in every case ran:

"Deutsch?"

"No English"

"Are you English?"

"Yes"

"Do you speak English?"

Then they usually say something in Italian to which the stock reply, throughout the trip was:

"Rhubarb".

This usually mystified the Italians but on two occasions I have heard them answer this 'question'. On one occasion the man whom Paul addressed, shook his head and said emphatically:

"Not good"

and on another occasion, the man I addressed beamed, rubbed his hands together and said:

"Yes".

The only strange thing to happen that night was the fact that I went to 'bed' early.

Tuesday, 8th April.

That morning, with one rucksack between six containing the six's food we set off to climb Vesuvius.

From the minute we left camp, we were climbing a slope, very gentle for the first four miles, then the road enters a thickly wooded belt and here the road began to wind. After another three miles we left the woods, and the Italian youths who shouted at us in Italian what might have been anything from 'Got any gum, chum?'" to 'Go home filthy English' and began to walk along a cinder road. A mile or two further on we came to a 'cafe' where the road definitely gave up. Here we 'cooked' cocas and ate our lunch. We were about three thousand feet up and it was very cold, so we were glad when the order came to move off to climb the last 1000 ft. In single file we marched up the track behind the guide and after an hour's climb we reached the mouth of the volcano.

Here the guide walked a few paces down into the mouth, sat on his heels, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted something in Italian. A few seconds later back came the echo. He turned to us, smiled and said, 'You try'. Someone counted '1, 2, 3' and for the first time in history Vesuvius re-echoed to the roar of 'Rhubarb'.

To climb Vesuvius had taken about 6 hours, to descend, perhaps and hour and a half.

That night everyone slept well.

Wednesday, 9th April.

Today we were going to walk >to Pompeii, and so, by 10.30, we had broken camp and were on the move. We reached Pompeii at about 1 o'clock and in those beautiful, historic ruins we set up our primuses and cooked an Irish stew! After wandering around for a few hours, we shouldered our packs and marched to the station where we caught a train to Salerno. We were on our way home.

The train arrived in Salerno at about 7.30 and so we had four and a half hours to kill before we caught the 12.00 train to Taormina in Sicily. That night I drank seven cups of coffee.

,At midnight we boarded the train and stood, sat, crouched, and lay in the crowded corridors as best we could. For myself I did not sleep at all, but yarned with anyone who was willing until, at about 8 o'clock, we left the train at the ferry which crossed the Messina Straits and, crossing as ordinary (if not a little scruffy and travel-worn) passengers to catch another train on the other side for the last hour and a half to Taormina After the time it took for the ferry to be loaded and for the train to shunt around it was noon before we got to Taormina. We had to climb the hill to the camping site and then put up the tents, so it was one o'clock in the afternoon before we got what was for many of us, the first sleep in 28 hours.

You will have noticed that I have not headed this, Thursday, 10th April, but have run two days into one. That is how it seemed to us.

We were awakened at four and we prepared our breakfast, cum-dinner-cum-tea, after which we summoned up the energy to go up to town, where we did some sight-seeing (we didn't have enough money for anything else) until 10.30 when we went to 'bed'.

That night, also, everyone slept well.

We spent all next day recuperating, the morning was spent by myself and half a dozen others, lying on the beach, and in the afternoon, the same group of us went to a cinema about the size of a classroom, and I saw Walt Disney's 'Fantasia'. It had always been my ambition to see this film and after talking to the boys, they were almost as enthusiastic about it as myself.

In the evening the masters went to see it and we boys had a last wander round Taormina before returning to Camp.

It was late in the morning when we 'sauntered' down the hill to the station, and caught a train to Syracuse where we had an hour to wait for the ship to dock.

At 9 o'clock we boarded the 'Argentina' which was to take ug back to Malta, and at midnight she sailed.

At 8 o'clock on the morning of Sunday, 13th April, 24 scruffy looking boys (I was the scruffiest) arrived in Grand Harbour after a 12 day hiking tour of Sicily and Italy (and Capri) and it is on behalf of the other 23 that I would like to say 'Thank you very much' to Mr. Cleaver, Mr. Parker, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bletcher and Mr. Ross for organising and helping us to enjoy the trip to Italy.

THE PARTY (as I knew them)

Paul Gurney, Cliff Foreman, Bob Bruce, Colin Cole, Walter Attwood, Bob Lant, Chris Johnson, Henry Cavill. Alan Mogridge. Greg Bailey, Stewart Taylor, Alan Ford, Roger Mantle, Derek Whammond. Terence Whitta, Tony Mullen, Bruce Love, 'Tommy' Steel. Barry Blandon, Pat Kiggell, Clive Wood, Leonard Curtis, Derek Bishop, and of course; yours truly 'SPIKE'.

The time is five to ten, snow is falling and it is bitterly cold outside. Soon I must go to catch that bus. I know I have tried every way to miss it or get away early, but I have failed.

Now I have to go. I put on my coat and hat, my fingers tremble as I do up the buttons.

Last night I had that dream again. I was on the same bus as I usually catch; there were twelve other passengers on it besides myself. I saw them all so plainly in the dream that as I walked down the road to the bus stop, I was trembling again.

The night was exactly like this one, the snow lay thick on the ground and was still falling The air was crisp and cold, and there was a frost about. It seemed like an ordinary Winter's night.

The boy and girl were in the usual seats at the back of the bus, talking to each other and ignoring everybody else. I remember the look of fear on her face as she realized that the bus is going to crash.

Two seats in front of this couple, sit two women busily gossiping, too late to notice what was happening, until it was too late.

In front of them was a man. He looked as if he had just come back from the city; he was reading a newspaper and had an attache case on his knee.

Then down by the door sat another couple; they looked typically country folk. He was puffing away at his pipe, while she was doing some knitting and not speaking much, either of them.

In the seat across from this couple sat a young girl of about sixteen, her fair hair tied into a pony's tail, and she was talking to a girl about her own age, sitting behind her. The girl was with her mother, who was looking out of the window, as we were about half-way along our route.

Behind these two sat a clergyman and a young man in R.A.F. uniform. The young man looked as though he was just going home on leave and was obviously very pleased about it. I sat behind these two. The total number of passengers was thirteen. Perhaps I am superstitious, but I remember thinking that this was an unlucky number.

By this time I had reached the bus stop, and in spite of the cold night, I felt the sweat running down my face. I must have looked pale for the conductor looked at me queerly as I paid for my ticket. Then he asked me if I felt alright.

I looked about me; everyone was here. Wait! One of the women was missing. My hopes mounted, maybe she would miss the bus. Then the dream wouldn't come true.

The seconds ticked by and still she didn't come, the driver got in and started up. I was full of confidence, but I looked back and shouted to the conductor that there was somebody running for the bus.

I shouted, I knew what would happen if she caught the bus.

She got on, caught sight of her friend and sat down beside her.

Now we were all complete. I busied myself studying the others, wondering how they would react.

As we draw nearer and nearer to the spot, I begin to sweat, I feel as though i want to scream, then I see mother look out of the window, my nerves are near breaking point.

Then suddenly I feel calm, so this is what you feel like near death. Now I am no longer afraid.

There is a loud report. I think one of the tyres have burst. The bus skids crazily on the icy road and then smashes into a nearby wall.

Once more I see the girl's frightened face, and then nothing.

When I returned to consciousness, I tried to tell the nurse that I knew it
was going to happen. She told me to try and get some sleep and not think
about it. I realized then that nobody would believe me if I told them. They
would think that I was mad. Margaret-Anne Read — 4AM

The morning was bright and clear and as I dressed and thought of breakfast, I wished that something exciting would happen. So imagine my delight when my parents suggested a day at Comino.

We set out early, with a packed lunch basket and all our bathing gear, and drove along the coast road in high spirits.

Once on the boat, we made friends with a Naval officer and his family who had diving gear with them. We anchored in the Blue Lagoon.

I put on the diving gear which was very heavy and climbed into the water which was crystal clear and warm. I gradually went down, getting nearer and nearer to the sandy bottom where I saw all the rainbow fish. Their colours were wonderful; they looked just like rainbows gliding along in the water. There were pretty green coloured shells clinging to the sides of the rocks and lovely green ferns floating on the bottom, with starfish by them of yellow and orange.

On the other side of me was a plane which had been used for a film, starring Buster Crabbe. I then came up to the surface of the water feeling very excited.

I climbed aboard the boat and told my parents what I had seen. They then also went down and enjoyed the sights.

Carol Knight — 2BG

A trick that everyone abhors

In little girls is slamming doors.

A naughty child did this one day.

Above the door, 'tis sad to say,

A bust of Shakespeare used to rest.

Of marble 'twas the very best,

And as young Marie slammed the door,

The ornament upon the floor

Did, fall and on the purple mat

The wicked child was squashed quite flat!

The funeral was held next day.

Those round the preacher heard him say

To all who stood around the grave,

That all who to her memory gave

A sad thought, were Papa and Mother.

Not a sister or a brother

Lamented her untimely fate.

None thought her good, or kind, or great.

But just a silly noisy child

On whom their curses should be piled.

Because of this, the children wail

When mothers tell the awful tale.

So let this story be a reminder

To all who act like this. Be kinder

To your Papa and to your Mother

To one and all, and to each other.

Keep this lesson in your mind

And throughout your life. Be kind —

To other people's ears.

CELINA COUTTS — 2CG

The view from my window just recently has been quite interesting. There have been two new buildings since Summer. One is an Air Force and Shell Service building and the other is a block of flats with shops below which are not yet completed. We live next door to a cinema and when there is a good film on we see the crowds going out or in.

At night we can see all the lights in Sliema and then we can see the lights in Valletta too.

In Summer it is quite pleasant looking out of the window. We see the flowers in bloom and the sun in the distance shining on the glass windows and making them dazzle. Another thing is the cars and buses rolling along with all the windows open and the people inside are wearing pretty Summer dresses or shorts and T-shirts.

In Spring which is Carnival time we have a good view of all the trucks going to line up outside Castile waiting for the Carnival to start. When the Carnival starts we see all the trucks coming in order and we also see the people who are dressed up.

Nothing really exciting happens outside our window but there will probably
be something sooner or later. Elinor Muirhead — 1BG

The capital of Greece, which for more than 1,000 years was the unquestioned centre of the western world, is today a modern city of 800,000 inhabitants

It lies in a valley a few miles inland from its port of Piraeus, itself a city of 500,000. Within the city, and commanding a fine view of it are two high hills. One is mount Lycabettos, topped by a white chapel almost 900 feet high. The other is the Acropolis, not so high (500 feet), but an imposing rock-cliffed plateau, topped by the Temple of Athena (Parthenon). When the temple is floodlighted at night it is not possible to see the supporting hill, and the building appears suspended in mid-air, a small, glowing architectural model which seems at that distance to have suffered no damage at all through the ages. Surrounding Athens are three mountains of grey rock, sparsely wooded.