Linda Powell - Follow That Dream

Copyright 2020 Linda Powell

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ISBN 978 1800468 351

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Haydn

Little was I to know that 1966 would be the year that would change my life forever!

As an eighteen-year-old in my first week away at Manchester University, I went along to a Geography Society party. There was nothing unusual about such an evening until, by chance, I noticed Linda standing on the other side of the record player. Elvis Presley was playing and this had acted like a magnet to both of us. I was conscious of her presence, but I pretended to be calm, confident and cool. As we looked at each other, I was taken by her lively, sparkling eyes. I held my breath as she leant towards me and lowered her voice to a whisper: Would you like to go out with my roommate? She isnt with anyone tonight and she has a car.

Several months later, we finally got together and our relationship developed. I soon recognised a challenge that Linda has never conquered: her sense of direction is abysmal. I first realised this when she asked me if my hometown of Birmingham was north or south of Manchester. However, she has never looked back and it is all the more enchanting that she has been the driving force behind most of our travels. Linda has taught me all I know about biology and I have tried to teach her about geography. Such a combination of biology and geography has stood us in good stead, and has enhanced our travels and adventures as we have grown together.

Linda throws herself completely into everything she tackles. The values by which she lives justice, equality and the importance of education are fundamental to her very being. Our travels and our learning are always enhanced by her sense of humour and infectious laughter, as well as her innate ability to build trust and empathy with people of all nations and cultures.

Lindas career in education has been extensive. It has taken her to headships of secondary schools in Waltham Forest, Haringey and Newham. From there she has moved into school inspection, coaching and leadership and management training in the UK and abroad.

An article in The Times newspaper described Linda as humorous and unassuming. Her leadership was described by OFSTED as simply excellent. These descriptions have pinpoint accuracy, and I would add that she is totally fearless, especially when she is fighting for a cause in which she truly believes. There is one exception to this fearlessness. She turns into a ball of jelly at the sight of an aeroplane, tall building, high mountain or any other great height that she has to ascend. Over the years, and in numerous locations, I have taken pictures from my commanding position at the top of some tall structure. Through a telescopic lens, Linda can be seen as a tiny speck in the distance waving up at me. As you read through the following pages, you will also learn that she has little patience with gun-toting, uniform-wearing men who are twice her size. I will leave you to discover more about this aspect of her character

In the following pages, Linda recalls the adventures that we have shared over the years. We travel to Jamaica, the East End of London, Africa, India, Cambodia, the United States, Russia and Central America. Her stories describe the challenges we have faced and they paint a vivid picture of the political situations that have formed a backdrop to our work and travel over the last half-century. The main focus of these writings is the joy of meeting, and learning from, enthusiastic, passionate people who support and motivate others. These people are not likely to be recorded in history but, bit by bit, they bring about positive, incremental change in their communities and sphere of influence. This book is a celebration of these people.

As I read and relive our experiences, at times I find myself laughing out loud. Sometimes I am moved to tears. Enjoy, reflect and be inspired to travel with us and meet real people who are out there achieving amazing things.

And, by the way, Linda still has wonderful, sparkling eyes and life continues to be an adventure.

Haydn Powell

I have never really had any desire to write a book.

I have always been an avid reader and adore the poetic writing of Maya Angelou and Ali Smith, the raw and understated emotion of Tara Westover, the detailed characters and visual images of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and the vivid sense of place and history of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. There are books that are as real and vital as they were when I read them years ago. There are books that changed my whole perspective on life. There are books that made me read the final pages as slowly as possible, because I didnt want them to end, and when I finally closed the book, I was in a state of satisfied bereavement. I love the feel of a book, the smell of a book and even that musty aroma that rises up from dust-laden books in ancient bookshops.

However, my writing has always consisted of such things as scientific reports, lesson plans, schemes of learning, evaluations, inspection reports, training materials for educationalists and so on. I believe that the last writing I did about anything that could be called vaguely creative was my English examination in 1964 when I had to write about a view from a high hill, and my English literature exam when I had to analyse the meeting between Elizabeth Bennett and Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Pride and Prejudice .

Then, a couple of summers ago, I was sprawled across a camping chair in the South of France, having completed a long, hot cycle ride. I was somewhere in that warm, friendly space between daydreaming and unconsciousness, and I found myself thinking about people from the past some I worked closely with and some I got to know briefly on my travels.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, I felt the need to write about them and about their influence on me. I set up the laptop on a very dodgy, unstable camping table and started to type. And I just carried on typing. This was something I had never done before. I was still typing as it became darker. I was still typing as the background chatter and sounds of plastic cutlery on plastic plates gradually subsided and the smell of one-pot casseroles slowly diffused into the languid summer air.

I carried on typing until a cloud of moths and other flying insects shrouded the small camping light at my shoulder, the laptop and my whole body, and I could see very little of what I was writing. I didnt exactly have a room of my own, as advised by Virginia Woolf, but I felt as if I had the whole campsite to myself.