The Other Side of The Dale
by Gervase Phinn

Introduction

Gervase Phinn - 'Your name sounds like a brand of French yoghurt' - is appointed a school inspector in North Yorkshire, visiting schools both in the town and in the idyllic Dales villages. At the centre of the tapestry of brilliantly portrayed characters which include his fellow inspectors, the wildly eccentric caretaker of the Staff Development Centre, the sporting chairman of governors, the visiting Ministry bigwigs - are the devoted teachers and their utterly unpredictable charges.

For many years, Gervase Phinn has captivated audiences with anecdotes about his life as a school inspector and now his stories - full of warmth, wisdom and wit - appear in print for the first time. He tells the story about the infants' nativity play where the Virgin Mary is found to have nits, of his skirmish with the lord of the manor, and many more tales of the delights, disasters and dramas of a school inspector.

Gervase Phinn is a born raconteur with a keen eye for the absurd and an eye for the ludicrous. Set against the background of the beautiful Yorkshire countryside, The Other Side of the Dale is a book for all those who find laughter and joy in children.

'His hilarious and touching memoirs guarantee him a place in the nation's hearts' The Daily Express

Biography

Gervase Phinn taught in a range of schools for fourteen years until, in 1984, he became General Adviser for Language Development in Rotherham and four years later was appointed Senior General Inspector for English and Drama with North Yorkshire County Council. He is visiting Professor in Education at the University of Teeside.

He is married with four children and lives in a village outside Doncaster. He is also the author of Over Hill and Dale (Penguin £6.99)

Extract

'It was a week later that a memo arrived from the Chief Education Officer requesting me to take a group of governors round some infant and primary schools to give them an insight into the workings of the curriculum. On the list was Lord Marrick of Manston Hall, and I was asked to drive him in my car.

A couple of days later, therefore, I collected his lordship from the Small Committee Room at County Hall and explained the programme of visits I had planned.

'Splendid! Splendid!' he cried eagerly

The first school we visited was a grey-stoned village primary school. Lord Marrick was something of a talking point when he entered the small classroom and with his red cheeks, great walrus moustache and hair shooting up from his square head it was not surprising. The bright tweeds added superbly to the effect. He was introduced to the very nervous Headmaster who was taking the class, and then sat down solidly, legs apart, on a tiny red melamine chair designed for very small children.

After a while, he was approached by a small girl who stared and stared at his round face and bristling moustache. Then the following conversation took place.

What is it?, asked the little girl

What's what, retorted Lord Marrick

That on your face

It's a moustache

What does it do?

It doesn't do anything.

Oh.

It just sits there on my lip.

Does it go up your nose? No.

Could I stroke it?

No.

Is it alive?

No, it's not alive.

Can I have one?

No.

Why?

Well, little girls don't have moustaches.

Why?

Because they don't.

Can I have one when I grow up?

No.

Why not?

Because ladies don't have moustaches either.

The little girl thought for a moment, tilted her head on one side before answering, Well my granny's got one!

'Really enjoyed that visit', Lord Marrick enthused, as we drove away. 'My goodness, these little ones are as bright as buttons, aren't they?

I got to know Lord Marrick well over the next few weeks. He was an immensely warm, generous, supportive and rather extravagant figure who loved the Dales as dearly as any farmer. There was one occasion when I accompanied him to a school on his own extensive estate: Manston Church of England Parochial School. He was clearly a well known figure there and the children were delighted when the larger-than-life figure strode through the door and boomed, 'Morning, children!' We sat beneath a marble plaque placed on the classroom wall by his forebear which stated that the school had been 'endowed by the Dowager Countess Marrick of Manston Park in the North Riding of Yorkshire'.

A chubby little individual came to talk to us with a bright 'Hello'. I let him chat on for a while and then I asked him the sort of question that adults usually ask small children.

'And what would you like to be when you grow up?'

I was expecting one of the stock answers: fireman, doctor, policeman, traindriver - but received a most unusual reply.

'The Earl of Marrick', he announced without hesitation. I stared for a moment at the sunny countenance of the present incumbent of that title, wondering what on earth his reaction would be, and was surprised when he roared with laughter and patted the boy's head affectionately before the child returned to work.

'Good lad. Good lad', he chortled.

'You are quite a hit, my lord', I observed as we walked to the car. 'It's a pity that the little boy will never achieve his ambition.'

'Nonsense!' Lord Marrick roared back. 'That's the grandson!'