Precious school trips took me away from mundane to moments that will live forever

From a disused golden tin that still smelled of tobacco, the green cardboard “free dinner” tickets were handed out each day. That wee ticket was a gateway to more than just cold gravy and pink custard.

If you were “a free dinner” in primary school you would likely also get a clothing grant to enable parity of school uniform. And, when it came to the annual “big ones” week away at some kind of outdoor activities centre, subsidies could be provided.

Just the thought of the slop bucket or instant mashed potato, dished up with an ice-cream scoop, still turns my stomach now. I’m grateful, though, for whatever scheme facilitated children like me having a shared experience away from home with their peers.

Last week, former teacher and Scottish Conservative MSP Liz Smith proposed all children should have the right to at least one week of residential outdoor education, and have that right enshrined in law.

Without question, had financial assistance not been provided I would not have been able to go on residential educational trips. I know that because, when a week in Bonskeid House, Pitlochry, as a primary kid was replaced with 10 days abroad in secondary school, I simply wasn’t allowed to go.

Let me tell you, sitting alone in a classroom while your friends go on a trip is an experience no child should go through.

And if I could bottle the memories and electric excitement of waving goodbye to a housing scheme for a dorm in an outdoor pursuits centre, I would.

In primary six, we joined the P7s in Pitlochry. We gorge-walked, we visited the Pass of Killiecrankie, we drew salmon leaping up a ladder, and we stayed up all night convincing ourselves the halls of the YMCA-owned mansion we were staying in was haunted by a pink lady.

A year later, my 11-strong primary seven class joined two other tiny senior classes from rural primary schools for five days in Muirkirk, Ayrshire.

Navigating an assault course in the pouring rain, getting soaked to the skin and still finding mud in my ears six weeks later paled into insignificance at the prospect of dancing at the final night disco with the red-haired Rick Astley lookalike that was Ian Lamb. Holding hands, wearing lilac jeans and a knock-off Naf Naf jumper, I’d never felt so alive.

Melodramatically, my 11-year-old world came crashing down on the bus journey home. I got dumped in front of my friends.

But those moments and memories have lived with me forever.