BeamBlog

AS a child, Oliver Sacks found magic in chemistry. He would pour vinegar on to chalk and watch it fizz; then he would pour the gas created (carbon dioxide) over a candle flame and see it go out. He would hold a red rose over burning sulphur to bleach it, then dip it into water to restore its colour.

But it was his "Uncle Tungsten", the owner of a light bulb factory, who set his imagination alight by handing him nuggets of heavy metals with romantic names such as osmiridium. Once, his uncle smeared aluminium with mercury. "All of a sudden - it was like some terrible disease - the surface broke down and a white substance like fungus rapidly grew out of it," Sacks writes in his new book, Uncle Tungsten. When the metal bar was completely eaten up, his uncle explained that it had oxidised, just like iron, but more rapidly.

Sacks has spent his adult life as a neurologist, achieving fame with books such as Awakenings and The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat - but that was a late love. Chemistry was the passion of his childhood, and he writes about it with enough enthusiasm to make any reader want to hang the periodic table on their wall and explore its mysteries.

Of course, the days of local chemical shops are long gone. Sacks used to frequent Griffin & Tatlock of Finchley, browse among the stoppered bottles and gutta-percha containers and spend his pocket money on magnesium, with which he would make explosions by throwing it on to the local pond. "Go easy with that one," the shop assistants used to say to him. Now, you cannot even buy waterglass for growing crystals at Boots, so what chance is there that a modern child could become so obsessed?

There are good reasons why experimentation at home is no longer encouraged. Most famous chemists have scars to show for their early mucking about. Humphrey Davy nearly asphyxiated himself with nitrous oxide. Robert Bunsen lost his right eye - and, very nearly, his life - in an explosion. But many a distinguished chemist has said that blowing up the garden shed was what turned him on to the subject.

In our safe world, it falls to teachers to make the same impact, and it is uphill work. Dr Amit Khandelwal, head of research and innovation for the Chemical Industries Association, talks of a shortage of graduates in organic chemistry and chemical engineering and a problem of "poor quality" throughout the industry. Even more of a problem is the public image of chemistry - at best dull, at worst dangerous.

Whenever you find an outstanding teacher, however, interest soars. At Eggbuckland Community College, a comprehensive in Devon, seven pupils took A-level chemistry three years ago. Now there are 31. The difference is Dr Chris Hall. At his last school, the number taking chemistry A-level also quadrupled. Last week, his efforts were rewarded when he was given the £10,000 Salters' Prize for chemistry teaching.

He understands the difficulties of igniting interest in schools because his was awakened only when he was doing a PhD, working on freezing reactions that happened in a billionth of a second - sometimes by doing experiments at -250C, which he describes as "pretty chilly".

"It's fascinating at the cutting edge," says Hall. But rather than work in research, he has gone into teaching to inspire others. There is nothing outlandish in his methods. He does not even use the course that the Salters' Company has devised, which begins with real-life problems and works backwards to the theory - "I start from theory and move into applications," he says, but he goes to great lengths to create the "oohs" and "aahs" that inspired Sacks in his uncle's laboratory.

Dr Hall's prize-winning lesson, for example, was on hydrogen bonding. He talks about the science of protein structures and DNA, but what really grabs the sixth-formers who are watching is his experiment. "I take polyethylene oxide, dissolve it in an alcohol, add water, then tip the liquid out of the beaker. It pours normally but, when you turn the beaker upright again, the bonds are so strong that the liquid defies gravity and continues to pour out of the top."

"Children love pops, bangs and smells," says Jenny Williams, head of chemistry at Christ's Hospital in West Sussex, "and they love to discover for themselves." So she lets them make pops (by adding magnesium to hydrochloric acid to make hydrogen), bangs (by mixing hydrogen and oxygen to make water) and smells (by burning sulphur).

Williams sends pupils aged between 11 and 13 off to the chemistry clubs at universities, which are organised by Salters'. Older children go off to chemistry camps. A third of all Christ's Hospital sixth-formers - both boys and girls - are now taking chemistry A-level; of those, a third go on to do degree courses involving chemistry.

Both Williams and Hall recommend starting children on chemistry at home. The simplest experiment - and the least likely to cause serious damage - involves taking red cabbage, adding acid (vinegar) and watching the colour go redder, then adding washing up liquid (alkali) to the saucepan and seeing the water turn green.

Or you could just buy Oliver Sacks's book.

• Uncle Tungsten by Oliver Sacks (Picador, £17.99) is available from Telegraph Books Direct for £15.99, plus £1.99 p&p. To order, call 0870 155 7222

ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7tbHLnp6rmaCde6S7ja6iaJ2UqrCiwMiopWidlKqwosDIqKWnnaeofHWDmGpnb2pfibWmecyanqKbXaSzbq7Ap56sZZGjsW6%2FzJ6jpatencGuuA%3D%3D