Essay :A Memory of Discovery Week

 

 

A Memory of Discovery Week

 

During my secondary school’s Discovery Week, we ventured deep into the Devon countryside. The itinerary promised athletic games followed by dinner, and then an unconventional night spent sleeping on the hillside. Then some of us were given mysterious assingment from our teacher.

 

Each of us was handed a large nylon sack, the kind that offered some insulation against the chill of the night. We were to spend the night nestled within them on the gently sloping ground of the campsite. The incline presented a mild challenge—throughout the night, I found myself slipping toward the bottom of the sack, though I managed to catch some sleep nonetheless.

 

At dawn, I stirred to the sight of my teacher chatting with one of my classmates. Dragging my nylon sack behind me, I shuffled over to join them. The teacher, as teachers often do, began firing questions. “Did you sleep well? How was yesterday’s athletic activity?”

 

I admitted that while the group games had been fun, the night had been less forgiving. The stony ground had made for an uncomfortable bed, leaving my back sore.

 

As we talked, others began to emerge, yawning and stretching. And then, quite abruptly, the teacher declared, “Drive a stake into the ground here.”

 

A stake? A wooden stake? Like the kind you hammer into the earth?

 

I nudged the ground with my foot. The soil appeared soft, almost sandy, but was surprisingly firm upon closer inspection.

 

Looking around, I gathered a few fallen branches nearby. One was from a relatively young tree, still supple and fresh, while another was an aged, hardened piece of wood. Judging by the task, the younger branch, more malleable and easier to work with, seemed the better choice.

 

Next, I searched for a suitable stone. Eventually, I found a chunk of what resembled black volcanic rock—slightly soft but firm enough to serve my purpose. Using this makeshift tool, I pounded the black rock against a larger stone, chipping away its sides to create a pointed end. With some effort, I stripped the smaller branches and bark until I had a crude yet serviceable stake.

 

The moment of truth came. Could this improvised tool penetrate the ground? Tentatively, I began by making a shallow hole using a small stone. Then, gripping the volcanic rock tightly, I hammered the pointed end of the branch into the soil. To my surprise, it slid in with relative ease. After a few forceful blows, the stake stood firmly planted. I tugged at it to ensure it was secure.

 

“Good work,” the teacher remarked.

 

A chorus of boos erupted from the onlookers.

 

“What on earth is that? Are you some kind of Neanderthal?” one classmate jeered, evidently amused by my reliance on stones to fashion the stake.

 

“Neanderthal? You could at least call it the Stone Age or the Iron Age!” I retorted with mock indignation.

 

“But using a rock to make a stake… that’s just—” my classmate trailed off, visibly unimpressed.

 

“Well then,” I challenged, tossing the hardened branch at him, “why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

 

To my surprise, he pulled out a slightly larger-than-usual Swiss Army knife. Admirable, I thought, though impractical for the task at hand. Its miniature blades and saws were hardly suited to shaping the tough wood efficiently.

 

While I moved on to another assignment set by the teacher, my classmate diligently set about carving his branch. By breakfast, I saw the fruits of his labour—or rather, the lack of them. The branch bore only minimal whittling, and it appeared he’d eventually abandoned the endeavour.

 

In hindsight, my quick success owed much to my willingness to embrace simplicity and use whatever materials were readily available. There’s something to be said for modern tools, of course, but the immediacy of picking up a rock and getting the job done proved far more effective in this instance.

 

This task, I realised later, was likely intended to simulate a practical camping scenario. Out in the wild, especially when ill-equipped, one must rely on the resources at hand.

 

Of course, our teacher’s cryptic directive—“Drive a stake into the ground”—was rather characteristic of his teaching style. And being called a Neanderthal for my efforts? Well, that has since become an amusing anecdote to share.

 

Whether prehistoric humans actually drove stakes into the ground remains a mystery, but I look back fondly on this memory. It stands as a small triumph in the larger tapestry of Discovery Week.