Lessons That Last: The journey to school

Looking back, I reckon we all took the long way home

Ask anyone who grew up in Australia through the 1950s, ’60s or ’70s about school and, sooner or later, they’ll stop talking about the classroom and start talking about the journey.

Some walked, and some pedalled home on Malvern Stars, dragsters and, later, BMXs, school bags slung over one shoulder. Others bounced around on country school buses, knowing exactly who’d get off at every stop before it was finally their turn.

There were shortcuts through parks and paddocks, detours to the milk bar, cricket bats over shoulders in summer, recorders poking out of school bags and, every now and then, half the school mysteriously drifting towards “the park” because word had spread that two blokes were about to settle an argument.

Looking back, I reckon we all took the long way home. Of course, if you asked my dear old Dad, our generation had it easy, as he’d constantly remind us, usually with a completely straight face, that he had to piggyback his little sister Kay all the way to school. Barefoot. And over bindi-eyes.

Looking back, I reckon the journey grew a few hundred metres every year… and the list of obstacles somehow kept growing with it.

Mine wasn’t quite that dramatic, but it did involve a Hereford bull called Pippi.

Meet Pippi

When I was about eight, we lived on a dairy farm about a kilometre from school, in country Victoria.

Depending on the day, I’d either walk or ride my second-hand purple Malvern Star.

It wasn’t exactly a reliable machine. Occasionally the chain would decide it’d had enough and jump off, leaving me standing on the side of the road with greasy fingers before I’d even reached school.

Before I’d gone very far, I’d hear movement in the paddock beside me.

It was Pippi.

Pippi was my pet Hereford bull.

Now before anyone asks… no, I never thought there was anything unusual about having a bull as a mate. To me, it was just Pippi.

He’d wander over to the fence and we’d head off together.

I’d be on the road and he’d amble along on the other side of the fence, stopping every now and then for another mouthful of grass before catching me up again. Whether I was walking or wobbling along on the old Malvern Star, Pippi somehow managed to keep pace.

Most mornings, when he wasn’t protecting his girlfriends.

Spring, magpies and dairy farms

Spring meant magpies.

This was long before anyone wore bike helmets, so getting swooped wasn’t just part of the journey — it was a real hazard. I’d pedal a little faster, duck my head and hope they’d choose someone else.

Pippi, meanwhile, couldn’t have cared less.

He just kept wandering along beside me, stopping every so often for another snack.

I can still remember the smell of those mornings too.

Fresh grass, cool country air, and because it was dairy country, that unmistakable smell of fresh cow manure drifting across the paddocks.

It probably sounds strange if you didn’t grow up around farms. To me, it still smells like home.

The corner of the paddock

About 200 metres before school, the fence line turned away from the road and that was as far as Pippi could come.

I’d keep going towards the school gate while he’d stop at the corner of the paddock.

That was our routine.

I never stopped to think how unusual it was, it was simply how the school day started.

Every now and then, as the afternoon bell rang and we’d all spill out through the school gate, I’d glance across towards the paddock.

Sure enough…

There was Pippi.

Standing at the fence about 200 metres away.

Waiting.

I’d start the trip home and, before long, there he’d be again, ambling along beside me on the other side of the fence, stopping for another mouthful of grass as we made our way back to the farm.

The journeys we remember

Thinking about it now, everyone seemed to have their own version of the trip to school.

Maybe you walked with your brothers and sisters, or you raced your mates home on your bike.

Maybe you spent an hour on the school bus, hoping you’d jag the back seat before someone else did. Or perhaps there was a milk bar that somehow always managed to separate you from the loose change in your pocket.

There may have been a shortcut through the creek, a neighbour who always waved from the front verandah, a dog that insisted on chasing every bike, or a magpie that declared war every spring.

Those little rituals became part of the school day without us ever realising it.

I couldn’t tell you what spelling words I learnt that year, but I can still picture Pippi standing patiently at that corner of the paddock.

This article is part of ‘Lessons That Last’, a new Starts At 60 series exploring the memories, traditions and school experiences that shape Australians across generations, presented in partnership with Schoolblazer Limited, a specialist school uniform company that works with hundreds of schools internationally. Through Lessons That Last, Starts At 60 is exploring the memories and experiences of school life across generations of Australians.