‘The School of Fordyce’ was founded in 1678 with an endowment from Walter Ogilvie of Reidhyth which was to yield, in perpetuity, an annual income sufficient to provide 20 boys from poor families with a higher education for five years at the school and four at the University of Aberdeen. In the course of its existence, it was located in various premises in what is now a beautifully preserved conservation village. It settled into its Victorian building in 1882. Renamed as ‘Fordyce Academy’ in 1900, it became, in time, one of the most important feeder schools to the University of Aberdeen and was described as ‘The Eton of the North’.
Amongst its most celebrated alumni, it boasted the Keeper of the Records for Scotland, two physicians-in-ordinary to Queen Victoria, two brothers who played in the first ‘international’ football match between Scotland and England, the Editor of the Scottish National Dictionary and, after it admitted girls, the first woman to graduate with first class honours from the University, in addition to eminent scientists, politicians, and bishops of the Roman Catholic church. A new building was erected beside it in 1924 (now the village primary school). This new building became the secondary school whilst the Victorian building was used solely as the primary school until it closed its doors in 1964.
In 1936, a former pupil, Douglas McLean, published The History of Fordyce Academy: Life at a Banffshire School 1592 – 1935. It includes a historical and geographical record of the school, a collection of stories from ‘old Fordycers’, class photographs, academic results, a roll of honour of those who fell in the Great War (1914 – 1918), and a biographical list of pupils (1866 – 1934) and their after-school achievements. The following extracts from the History teach us much about school-life at the turn of the last century in rural Aberdeenshire. (And they may remind us, too, of a part of ourselves that we may have forgotten, though we who read them today were at school at a different time and in a different place!)
First, an amusing description of the village, of which Fordyce Academy was very much a part, from the ‘Howlers’ section of the School Magazine (1915):
The village of Fordyce is three and a half miles from Cullen and a mile and a half from Portsoy. It has the Durn Hill on one side and Fordyce Hill on the other. It is a very small villiage. There is not many shops in Fordyce. Fordyce is introduced by farmers working round it. It is situated between Portsoy and Cullen. There is some crafts round about it. The burn is on the left side of Fordyce. The women in Fordyce go out to the steem milnes. The Academy stands not far from the school. The people go to the Church on Sunday. There is one old ruin in the churchyard. It was once a good Church in the old time. The churchyard is beautiful with the bony glossy stones. Some people might come out of big towns, like of London, Glasgow and Aberdeen. This people would come and ask, where the churchyard. They would ask at some of the people in Fordyce. The people of Fordyce is very ignorant. They boys are not good in Fordyce. The wives work at any little job they can get. The conclusion of Fordyce is not good. If any people come into the village and ask where the Public Hall was, they would of said it was away over there.”
Of the initiation ceremonies for new bursars, Alexander Peterkin, a pupil from 1899 – 1904 writes:
I mentioned the ‘hingin’ of new bursars – the ceremony of initiation to full civitas. That was carried out in the shelter shed to the accompaniment of a thorough-going display of barbarism. Towards the end of last century, this ceremony had been more drastic: the unwilling aspirants were forcibly collected by a gang of muscular seniors, and in full procession were escorted (ie carted) down to Fordyce burn, and were thrown in. Unfortunately there came a day when this horse-play resulted in tragedy – the new bursar contracted a chill which ultimately proved fatal – and the practice was stopped by the School Board. Thereupon the scene was changed to the playground. On the appointed day, the pallid crew of novitiates was subpoenaed to appear for trial by their betters. Resistance was obviously worse than useless; we gave ourselves a special scrub the previous night, saw to it that stockings were in good repair, and carefully emptied our pockets. One by one we were hoisted up, hands over the rafters, on which two individuals, carefully selected for their corpulence, were already installed. These heavy-weights pressed their knees down on the back of the candidate’s hands, and the hapless wight was launched on his voyage. He was at first swung slowly to and fro, then faster and higher, and the parabola was kept up by vigorous application of heavy grammars and maths books to whatsoever portion of his anatomy happened to be nearest. Slowly his lower clothing disintegrated – willing hands helping with undoing of buttons, braces, and bootlaces, - and finally, when the jury was satisfied, his hands were released, and he was permitted to drop on to his wardrobe piled below, fold it…and silently steal away. He was now deemed to be duly enrolled, and entitled to receive the pay and allowances (if any) of his rank. I understand that in later days a fond mamma, horrified at the state of Percy’s modish pantings, complained to those in authority, and this practice also was relegated to the brutal and licentious past.
Of the rigours of the school’s curriculum, Margaret Dunbar, a pupil from 1896 – 1903 writes:
In my day, there was no Science, neither did we have gymnastics or any kind of relaxation. It took us all evening and into early morning to get our ‘lessons’ done for next day – and nobody kicked. The strap was used for small offences, as well as bigger ones. To talk in Class was unthinkable; still we managed in some wireless way to convey thoughts to each other quite efficiently. For the week-ends, an extra dose of lessons was given out, and yet we weren’t supposed to do anything on Sundays.
Whilst Elizabeth Peterkin, a pupil from 1897 – 1901, says:
I have often reflected on and tried to sum up the value of the kind of education we had in Fordyce. It was far too hard for people of our age, and the strain on mind and body far too great, I am sure – and we had no relaxation. At the same time, we knew nothing else, and it was the only gate through which we could pass to a larger life. And when one had a good home and sympathetic parents no harm was done, probably. At any rate, one got a foundation on which a wider culture could be built later. For that I always feel grateful.
But school life was more than just the “grim, dour, unyielding business of the curriculum”, as W Taylor (a pupil from 1903 – 1909) reports, describing the friendships that were forged on the journey to school in the morning:
For me the day started in that earlier period, before my sister and I acquired bicycles, with the joining up of various groups on the way to school at the top of Towie Wood. Bella Gray from the Shirralds, and the Burnetts from the Brickworks were usually our only companions up to that point; but, having debouched on to the road from Deskford where the path led out of the wood, we could strike the M’Combies from Leitchestown and Frankie Rumbles from the Milton. Then, riding in state in a pony and trap, came Allie Stewart and Wattie – preceded or followed, as the case might be, by Jockie Lawrence and Meg with their Highland ‘sheltie’. Or, if we took the lower road by Birkenbog, there was Polly Forbes to be met at the junction of the Tochieneal road, and ‘Piper’ Ingram, and ‘Airchie’ M’Lean, who always had some scheme of devilment on hand.
In the playground, Alexander Peterkin recalls:
And yet we got a lot of fun one way or another – probably we were much more easily pleased than our more sophisticated children are nowadays. Football was our main game, and we knew no close season. There was no pitch save the playground, and as like as not, a school window acted as goal-net. The rule of Him Who Must Be Obeyed was “Break as many windows as you like, but tidy up the mess forthwith, and put the glass in at your own expense”. We were fine customers of Mr Paterson, the joiner; and of course the whole tribe of players was called on to foot the bill, on the old maxim, no doubt, that qui facit per alium facit per se. Cricket we had use for, and hockey had not yet been born in these parts.
And, during the dinner hour, W Taylor says:
…we split up into groups according to our financial standing. The plutocrats who could afford something like two-and-sixpence a week repaired to certain recognized establishments in the village where they consumed a civilized lunch: others carried their lunch with them in their pockets and ate it in the playground: while others again relied upon the resources of Chalmers the baker. In my early days an attempt was made to run a Soup Kitchen in (I think) the Hall of the UF Church, but it did not last long. It was under the presidency of Elsie Geddes, who was the school cleaner, and I shrewdly suspect from my recollection of the pea-soup that the good Elsie was ‘knackier’ with the besom than she was with the stew-pot.
The annual Bursars’ Ball – an invitation-only event - was also enjoyed by all (until the last occasion of it in 1901). It was hosted by the pupils to thank those in the community who offered hospitality to the bursars - including the editor of the History who boarded at the castle in the village during his last two Winters at the school for what he describes as an “extortionate charge” of ten shillings per week. One committee member, Alexander Peterkin, gives this account of the proceedings:
The Band arrives – “engaged regardless of cost” – well nearly regardless – not quite so impressed with our ballroom as we had expected, but evidently determined to work hard for their money. The crowd gathers – they have come from far and near; the ladies have got ‘em all on tonight – we can see that, and we are flattered but rather awe-stricken, for is not this our first real dance? The Grand March is announced by our already-perspiring Master of Ceremonies…on with the dance; this is Life at last. But the greatest thrill is yet to come. After the Captains and the Kings have departed with their Queens – about 3 am I suppose – the male section of the Committee stays on. A great fire has been carefully nursed in the buffet-room; chairs are pushed up, sandwiches and cakes and lemonade are produced in large numbers – “or what’s a Committee for?”. And there we sit, talking over the evening’s battles, getting more and more uncomfortable – for much lemonade is a wayward mistress – sleeping by fits and starts – until the arrival of dawn brings with it our final task, that of replacing the gaudy tinsel of night life with the grim realities of desks and inkwells.
And the annual School Picnic, which took place in a field behind Glassaugh House, was also much anticipated, says W Taylor:
It took place in September, when the weather was invariably fine; and only the gathering dusk could ever bring it to an end. It was a great social occasion in our simple life. Our faces got an extra rub, that day, and our straw hats got tilted at an ultra-fetching ancle. For we had our adolescent romances then, as I suppose our successors have them still. And good luck to them; for they add warmth to life and do no harm. I remember I broke out in poetry at one stage….
For the teaching staff, the building, in time, failed to offer suitable accommodation for the provision of a modern secondary education. George WJ Farquharson, a teacher from 1921-1924, describes his introduction to it by the headmaster:
On the Sunday morning, before church, Mr Simpson conducted me over the school. As we were crossing the road, he warned me not to be shocked too much by the building I was about to see, explaining how he himself had almost fallen off his bicycle on the occasion when he first saw it. These were the days of ‘The Black Hole’, and of the dingy middle room which was to be my own class-room.
And so, in 1924, though Farquharson proudly declares that this country school “by tradition of work and classical scholarship had worthily earned the name of Academy and had made for itself the reputation of one of the leading Secondary Schools in the North of Scotland”, a new building was constructed beside the old one. This new building became the secondary school whilst the Victorian building was used solely as the primary school until it closed its doors in 1964. Nevertheless, the contributors to the History do share fond memories of their days at Fordyce Academy:
They were good days, taking them all in all. Hard, and even painful; but we grew to full stature under their discipline. We were a simple community, subsisting on simple pleasures and simple ideas; but that was a healthier environment for the growing mind than the sophistication of the more populous centres. We were all woefully poor and carried a burden of responsibility for our own future that the more affluent escape; but we were trained to industry and effort and self-reliance. Many precious things we learned that no other kind of experience could have taught us and, looking back, each lesson learnt recalls some person or place or occasion that is for us Fordyce.
And Douglas McLean writes these wistfully evocative words to conclude his History:
Look back on your schooldays – what do you remember best? Nothing (by adult standards) very grand or memorable or funny, but things you could hardly put into words – an atmosphere, perhaps mephitic in actuality, sunset touches, a wasp in the classroom on an Autumn afternoon, the stars of a still Winter’s night flashing into youth’s being long, long thoughts, a few tags and jokes – “Lo, some we loved” – almost anything, almost nothing. These move hither and thither in the memory, dislodging and surviving greater things; you hold your breath and try to recapture more…and the wind passeth over them, and they are gone.