Mayfield Magazine 1965, Issue 27
From the Editorial by Mr. G. J. Larcombe: Contributions have not been so numerous and it has been difficult to continue the excellent standard of previous years. Most of the contributions have come from younger boys, and we look forward with interest to the development of style which these boys will experience in the next two years. Come on boys! It is YOUR magazine. Don’t be afraid to let me have your work. It may be just what we need.
From the Headmaster’s Review by C. F. W. Hicks: Special mention must be made of John Morris, our Head Boy, who was successful in all his “A” Level Examinations: Economics, Economic History and Music, and is now studying music at the Royal College. Neil Whitehead was successful in his “A” Level Art Examination, and is now studying Art at the South East Essex College, Art Department.
Contribution List – Click on items shown as links to jump to the entry
The Gleaming Sun by P. Arnold
Free Print (Using glue on strawboard) by T. Sutton
The Stream by B. Richards
The Old Man by P. Groom
The Spider by M. Parks
The School Journey To Germany 1965 by G. Russell
Collecting Brass Rubbings, Coalhole And Manhole Cover Rubbings by G. Gubbidge
A Bus To School by R. Moulton
East And West by P. Dunster
The Spider by P. Saunderson
The Happiest Day Of My Life by J. Britton
Lay Figure by D. Ensor
The Station, Lithographic Painting by A. Dawes
The Cattle Trail by R. Barling
Parody On Lochinvar by R. Goffee
A Camel Ride In Egypt by David Braham
Witches’ Day by P. Arnold
My “Gresham Flyer” by J. Bayfield
Night by M. Bartlett
Fight To The Death by M. Wilson
West Ham At Wembley by K. Chalk
A Trip To Waterloo And The Transport Museum At Clapham by D. Shepherd
The World And The Hated by P. Fitzpatrick
The Heat by S. Radley
Free Print (Using glue on strawboard) by T. Sutton
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The Old Man by P. Groom
The old man, a tramp, or not a tramp:
Perhaps a tramp,He walks the lanes, not cities
Those horrible, ugly, dirt-ridden, smoke- infested places,
But the clean, fresh, beautiful lanes of the land.
He is educated, better than you or I,
Better than those
Who call themselves “Lord or “Lady” –
They are but vulgar and ignorant
In comparison with him.
How many of them see the dawn, hear its chorus,
Or even care about it?
Not many.
He knows them, he loves them, he takes them
Not for granted: they are as beautiful today
As the day when he first saw them.
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The Station, Lithographic Painting by A. Dawes
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A Camel Ride In Egypt by D. Braham
The time had come for my ride on a camel up to the great Pyramids, and it was in true Egyptian style. I wore an Arab head-dress, rode on an Egyptian camel and had an Arabian camel driver.
The camel was kneeling on the barren desert sand, calm and motionless, with only the busy flies crawling round its eyes. The Arab driver told me when I mounted, to sit on the saddle and swing my leg over the animal’s head. Of course I did this cautiously as I did not want to suffer the consequences if I hit its head. The camel grunted as I put my full weight on its back. Suddenly the driver gave a sharp stroke with his whip on to the camel’s neck and shouted a word. Instantly, to my surprise, I was thrown forward. Before I was off balance, up went the front legs. The two quick motions counteracted each other and gave me a sickening sensation similar to a car going over a humpbacked bridge at speed. The camel while rising swayed slightly but was corrected by a stroke of the Arab’s whip. This also sent the camel off at a rapid trot, but as we proceeded out of the enclosure and joined the line of camels in the road, we slowed down to a gentle stroll. As I sat between the hump and the neck, Swaying majestically from side to side, and bouncing rhythmically up and down, I could see the dull yellow line of the Pyramids silhouetted against the pale blue sky in the most magnificent way.
The ride up the hill was very slow but most enjoyable. As the camels came in front of the largest pyramid they broke up without any order, my camel and I were taken to a clear space. Once again the camel took me by surprise by falling on its knees. The movements were just as sharp but in the opposite order. Again my stomach was put through the same torture as before. As I dismounted I found myself swaying for a while, but I was glad to be on firm ground again.
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Witches’ Day by P. Arnold
On Hallowe’en ’tis said they fly
Across the bright clear moonlit sky.
They have no wings or aeroplanes,
A broomstick is their only means.
And if you look out on that day
You might e’en see the witches play.
And if this sight you should but see,
A witch is in your family tree.
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I was in the same class as Neil Whitehead (mentioned in the Headmaster’s Review) who stayed on and did a 6th year to get his Art A level. He and I both got O levels in 1964. I recall meeting him at the tech where he studied and where I had evening classes whilst also training as a commercial artist after leaving in 1964. He certainly had very good talent.