Memories of food at Farchynys
Friday was the dangerous day: tea came with us on wheels,
Our minibus smelling of boys and batter and non-standard tomato sauce;
Perhaps not exactly Mrs. Watkins’s Taste the Difference fish
Was stored precariously under seats in scratched Aluminum and threatened,
As we climbed the heights of Dinas.
Saturday often brought surprises after long fresh-air days
Like Geoffrey’s Boeuf Stroganoff and the dark brown slush of
Poires au vin du Bourgogne,
The sight of which tested the saporific nerve of even Alpha boys
But nevertheless soon passed our eager invigilation and was gone.
On Sunday, the reward for finding long lost Roman roads
Was JAD’s Brithdir Roast: a great golden bird
Displayed with squadrons of spuds and roots
And plattered to fill us up and lift our hearts for
The journey back to Mocks.
The Kitchen spick once more,
The light falls in the Dayroom,
Refectory tables are stacked,
The Coach House stands empty
Yet full of the aromas of our histories.