No 1 Son has been on his first (and at the moment; last) Duke of Edinburgh expedition; a trial run for assessment in September, while we were away for the weekend.   Torn with emotion at having to leave No 1 Son in the capable hands of organisers; none of whom I had met I had to travel from the area.

If I take you back just a week when we were holidaying in the Lake District.  Imagine if you can a high street of any town or city, take it further and picture any town in the Lakes.  Every other shop selling outdoor walking gear, camping equipment, trekking paraphernalia of every description size and usage.   The day after we return home No 1 Son brings out a letter explaining what is required for his weekend!

Everything on the list we could have bought time and again in the Lakes but back home in our sleepy town there is not a single shop of use.    Sexy Sporty Dad rummaged in long forgotten storage boxes and found an old pair of walking boots from his trekking past.   There is not a lot of difference in shoe size between them these days, and these were, as the letter said broken in – it said nothing about by whom.  I benefitted by being treated to lunch and an afternoon’s shopping in the nearest city to boast a camping shop.  We bought him everything he will ever need, whether trekking 10 miles across local fields or setting off for the Mississippi jungles!

I was careful and clever to buy tins checking they all had the ring pulls.  I bought plenty of treats to keep him going, biscuits, packets of hot chocolate to make up and fruit.    He would not go hungry. He had a large water bottle to keep with him, little box drinks and milky cartons; he would not go thirsty!

Saturday morning laden with his rucksack; it took both of us to lift into the boot of my car, I took him to the rendezvous.   I needed to tell them I was away for the weekend, and they needed to know who I was.

“I will be away for the weekend”

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Well if you needed us you have to use our mobile number”

“Fine.”   She didn’t check her list to make sure she had my mobile number.

“On Sunday when you get back we won’t be here to pick him up”

“So”

“He is fine to walk home or he has permission to be given a lift by a parent of one of his friends from the trek”

“OK” and she looked at me as if I was not from the real world and waited for my next gem of over protective parenting.

No 1 Son tugged at my shirt sleeve suggesting it was time I left him with his friends and went home before too many people arrived.  He refused to kiss or hug me and barely managed a bye.

I drove away slowly going round the block to check; I am not sure what; but to check.

The following evening, I waited four hours after I expected the call, rain pouring down in torrents, I not knowing where he was; he was not answering the home phone. In motherly desperation I called a neighbour.    She ran over and knocked loudly on the door.  Finding it unlocked we assumed he had at least arrived home.   A few minutes later a gruff angry voice rang my mobile.

“Hello, I’m home.  I had a shower an shut my eyes for just 10 minutes four hours ago and now I just got woke up.”

At least he was safe.

We returned home to listen to the painful step by step account of his traumatic never to be repeated weekend.   His rucksack was heavier than anyone else’s; nobody else had tins which weighed him down.  He had to help carry the trangia as well as his luggage.  Apparently someone took pity on him and carried the tent.    It rained the whole weekend and all his clothes were wet, his feet were cold and wet and his sleeping bag dripped as he unloaded.

Despite four hours sleep followed by a good night’s sleep Monday arrived with the argument that he was too tired still to go to school; and it would not be worthwhile  as he wouldn’t be able to learn anything.  Wicked, evil mother that I am ignored the barrage of excuses.  I did relent by driving him to school, consequently making myself late for work.  He returned that night complaining that his friend who had also been on expedition had taken the day off because he was tired.

He does not plan to continue with the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme at the moment; although next time the sun might shine and we have already learnt a lot about travelling light, not to mention bought at vast expense the accoutrements to last him a lifetime.  I have plans for him to continue.

The apron strings are still attached but becoming taught and frayed.  When does a boy become independent enough to make his own arrangements and a mother stop worrying about him? At what stage do I sleep through the night without waking and wondering where he is, how he is and who he is with?  When do I no longer need to give him permission and he just does?

Tiggy