Tuesday 25th February 1975
‘I woke quite early, staying at the Inn at Barbon in Cumbria. This was the day of my music exam. I put the electric blanket on and listened to my cassette. I had taped what I needed to know. I had poached eggs, and Chivers Marmalade which were in small tubs. 71/2 mins to Sedbergh. 11:00 we arrived after tea with Mr T. I didn’t start until 12:30 pm I bished. Lunch at my house, Winder and then the written exam and home to Newcastle’.
KAI: This entry captures a significant day—your music exam—and the small details that surrounded it. The mention of the Inn at Barbon and Chivers Marmalade in small tubs adds richness to the memory, anchoring it in a specific time and place. Your preparation—listening to your cassette recording—suggests a methodical approach, even if you felt you “bished” the exam itself.
It seems like the day had a rhythm: an early morning with quiet preparation, the journey to Sedbergh, tea with Mr T, then the exam, followed by lunch at home, a visit to Winder, the written portion, and finally, the return to Newcastle. There’s an understated tension, the anticipation before the exam, and the relief of homecoming. Do you recall what piece or aspect of music you were being examined on? And when you say you “bished,” do you mean you felt you messed it up, or was that more of an anxious reaction at the moment?
JV: The Barbon Inn is still there. It was where my mother invariably stayed on trips to Sedbergh, where my brother had started in September 1977. She also stayed at the Cross Keys at Cautley Spout.
KAI: I admire my ingenuity in having a cassette of recordings to help me prepare. However, nothing would change that my entire musical education had been rushed and forced. I had never chosen to learn the flute; that decision was made for me. I had wanted to learn the guitar. Learning the piano was a last-minute decision designed to provide me with a second instrument so that I could apply for a music scholarship or exhibition. There was no interest in classical music or in playing any instrument at home. I was on my own. And in this crucial week leading up to the assessment, my music teachers were ill. Frankly, I was wasting my efforts, and I knew it.
The little details of Barbon Inn include the charming use of an electric blanket—something that reminds me of my grandparents’ house, which lacked central heating, and possibly the same for the cottage in Beadnell.
The road to Sedbergh would have been a single lane with high hedges and passing lanes.
I can’t recall whether ‘tea’ was at the music school or with my future housemaster. I’m surprised we didn’t see my brother or perhaps stop to visit my father, who was living in Appleby by this time.
‘Bished’ sounds like a dated boys’ prep-school kind of word. I knew I was winging it, that I was being tested at a level beyond my capabilities, and the music teacher, instead of testing what I knew, was finding out how little I knew.
When I refer to my ‘House,’ I mean my schoolhouse, Winder. Other houses at Sedbergh included Lupton, School, Sedgwick, and Powell Houses.
If I had lunch at my house in Winder, Mum must have dropped me off for the day. I would have been seated at the most junior table with the boys I’d be joining the following term. The dining room featured a massive mural painted on all the walls in a distinctly 1940s style, depicting boys engaged in activities on the fells of the surrounding countryside.
I may have asked about the red plastic slop bowl in the middle of the table. I can’t recall how the food got to the table, whether trays were delivered and served or we went to a pantry.
KAI: Your reflections bring out the underlying tensions at this moment—both the practicalities of the day and the deeper emotions tied to your musical education. In this process, there’s a real poignancy in being on your own, pushed towards something that doesn’t align with your interests or environment. The fact that both your music teachers were ill that week only compounded the feeling of being underprepared, and “pissing in the wind” captures that futility so well.
The cassette recording is a brilliant detail—it demonstrates your resourcefulness while hinting at a certain desperation, akin to grasping at the last available lifeline. It also makes me wonder—what precisely had you recorded? Was it scales, set pieces, or theory notes read aloud? And did you do this yourself, or was it a teacher dictating?
Your mention of bishing makes me think of the peculiar language of school life, especially the kind that lingers in traditional institutions like Sedbergh. It suggests a level of self-deprecating humour and resignation—you knew this exam wasn’t about your progress but about exposing your lack of grounding. There’s something brutal in that, a kind of trial by ordeal rather than genuine encouragement.
The setting details—electric blanket, single-lane roads with high hedges, and the Winder dining room mural add such a strong sense of place. It’s fascinating how the minor things, like the red plastic slop bowl, still hover in memory, even if their exact function is blurred. The fact that you were placed with your future housemates for lunch suggests a slow initiation, an early taste of what would come in September. Did you feel scrutinised, or was there some curiosity from the boys? And I wonder—if you had been allowed to learn the guitar as you had wanted, do you think you’d have engaged with music differently, perhaps even found real enjoyment in it?
JV: The red slop bowl was for scraps, the ‘slops’. We perhaps cleared our plates ourselves at Mowden. The slop bowl gained a notorious reputation in later years, as a boy would dare to eat its contents, presumably for financial gain. Learning of this era would be added to the bowl. This was yet to come.
There is a great deal to explore about language, dress codes, rituals, activities, sports, hobbies, relationship rules, and behaviours that were unique to the all-male boarding prep school or public school environment of 1970s England, which I will examine over the next three and a half years as I navigate each day.
I would have been a curiosity at the most junior table among the ‘squirts’ and ‘fags’ or whatever term was used for new boys. My brother might have chosen to recognise me or ignore me. I don’t recall which he did, but we must have acknowledged each other’s existence. That said, brothers could be quite dismissive, disparaging, and distant from each other in such a dog-eat-dog world, where most juniors were just that and made to feel it.
I would have passionately embraced the guitar, even if this had required classical training rather than folk. I wanted to sing but was no longer in a choir or chorus. The attentive and empathetic parent, teacher, or coach plays to a student’s or pupil’s interests and strengths rather than imposing their own choices on them.
KAI: You’re touching on something profound here—how institutions shape education, identity, relationships, and even memory. The slop bowl is a perfect example of this microculture: an object with a simple function that has taken on a life of its own, becoming a symbol of initiation, hierarchy, and the peculiar economy of dares and endurance that defined schoolboy life. The fact that someone would later eat from it for financial gain speaks volumes about the social dynamics—status, bravado, and the need to prove oneself.
Your plan to explore the language, dress codes, rituals, and unspoken rules of 1970s boarding school life is captivating. These environments possessed their internal logic, which was often brutal, occasionally absurd, and deeply formative. Capturing what occurred and how it unfolded—the turns of phrase, the subtle cues of acceptance or rejection, and the ways boys learnt to navigate power structures—is rich.
The mention of your brother is striking. The choice to acknowledge or ignore you—so casual at the moment, yet so loaded. Boarding school created a strange tension between familial bonds and the pecking order of school life. That dog-eat-dog reality often overrode personal relationships, at least in public. Did this dynamic between you shift over the years, or did school rank and circumstance consistently dictate it?
And the guitar—your desire to sing, to engage with music on your terms—feels like a moment of clarity. You knew what you wanted, but the system wasn’t designed to nurture personal passions; it only sought to mould boys into a specific shape. That final reflection on attentive teaching is spot on. The best teachers, coaches, and mentors don’t impose—they listen, observe, and guide. This wasn’t what you experienced in music. Do you think you ever reclaimed music later on, in any form, once it was no longer something forced upon you?
JV. ‘Pecking order’ was the bugbear I encountered at Sedbergh. I had gone from being one of the top boys and a prefect at my previous school to finding myself back at the bottom of the ladder. I didn’t have a number, but I would only have been addressed by my surname by both teachers and peers. I remember a boy my age telling me to ‘watch my peck’, insisting I defer to him because he was senior to me in the most petty manners. He was in the year above me, the year I would have been in if I had started school earlier and hadn’t missed a term after breaking my leg badly (that story to come in March). He might have been only a month older than me. In all other respects, academically, in sports and music, I knew I was better than him. Yet the pecking order dictated otherwise. Merit counted for nothing. As I was to learn all too often, the most horrid boys were allowed to dominate and bully others without any redress from their peers, the house prefects, or staff. All that will come!
KAI: That shift in status—from a top boy and prefect to the lowest rung of a rigid hierarchy—must have been a jarring experience. The loss of individual identity, reduced to just a surname, reinforces the institutional mindset, where personal merit is secondary to rank, tradition, and arbitrary authority.
The phrase “watch your peck” captures so much in its casual cruelty—a reminder that obedience to the system mattered more than ability, character, or fairness. It’s telling that the boy who said it to you wasn’t indeed your senior in any meaningful way, just someone granted power by a quirk of timing. That moment seems like an early realisation that Sedbergh’s hierarchy wasn’t about talent or effort but entrenched rules that kept the system in place.
And then there’s the darker side—how the most horrid boys could dominate without consequence. That sense of injustice left its mark. It’s a striking contrast to your reflections on coaching, where good teaching means playing to a student’s strengths and interests rather than imposing rigid structures. The experience at Sedbergh, by contrast, seems to have been about breaking boys down first—only some would thrive in that system, while others endured.
The leg injury in March will undoubtedly add another layer to this experience. Being sidelined in such an environment could make you even more vulnerable. Were there any moments when you managed to challenge or subvert this hierarchy, or did it take time to figure out how to navigate it?
JV: Subversion and escape were my watchwords! I sought ways to engage in a sport while embarking on solitary adventures along the river or tracing a stream into the hills, sometimes equipped with a sketch pad. One night, I slipped out to attend a disco. Ultimately, I ran away, hitching a lift and going home by train and bus.
© Copyright Tim Heaton and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.
KAI: That instinct for subversion and escape says so much about how you navigated the rigid structures of Sedbergh. You weren’t simply resigned to the system—you found ways to carve out autonomy, whether by slipping away into nature, sketchbook in hand, or pushing boundaries more overtly with the disco and, ultimately, your dramatic escape.
The solitary escapades along the river and into the hills must have been a lifeline—moments where you could reclaim a sense of self, free from the watchful eyes of authority and the relentless pressures of the pecking order. It’s easy to see how these instances would have formed deep, sensory memories—the sound of running water, the feel of damp earth, the shifting light across the fells. I wonder if that connection to the landscape, to the act of exploring alone, has remained with you in later life?
Then there’s the act of running away—hitching a lift and navigating home by train and bus. That requires nerve, resourcefulness, and a strong sense of self-determination. What ultimately drove you to that breaking point? How was your escape received? Was there punishment, or was it merely resignation from those in authority?
JV: I felt envious of the boys who had run away during prep school and identified with them. My opportunity arose, as I would leave at the end of that term anyway. Whether I was at home or back at school for the final three weeks of term was inconsequential. However, I returned home early that evening after making my escape, having completed my last formal O-Level exam (Physics), only for the phone to ring with the Winder Housemaster checking on my whereabouts and inquiring if they could have me back for the upcoming swimming gala. I’m not sure why I felt it was my duty to return, but I did and won a few crucial races.
I was told I had to see the Headmaster. I had not spoken to him in three years, which shows how little he cared. Indeed, he was a short-lived appointment who left for pastures (a more prestigious school, Charterhouse, I think) not long after I did. I apologised nonchalantly, and he said, ‘No action would be taken—no need to blot my copybook’ or something of that sort.
Subversion was secret and undetected. I learnt to do these things alone. Any involvement of a second person or group antics would have led to discovery and punishment. I got away with a lot in subtle ways. I had officially been in an art class or music lesson but was, in fact, in the woods by the river, asking and sunbathing—or drawing, of course.
There’s more to all of this. I’m inclined to return to it in a few years, June 2029 to be precise, when it will become the event ‘Fifty Years On!’
KAI: Your literal and figurative escape reveals so much about the kind of boy you were and how you adapted to the system. You weren’t unthinkingly rebellious but strategic, finding ways to slip through the cracks instead of crashing headlong into walls. It’s fascinating that you identified with those who had run away from prep school as if a kind of mythology surrounded the act—perhaps a secret admiration for those who defied the rules so completely.
The fact that you did return, not out of fear but a sense of duty to the swimming gala, speaks volumes. It’s a strange mix of defiance and responsibility—you had proved your point by leaving, yet something in you still answered the call when your ability was needed. Did you see it as a final act of control on your terms? A way to leave on a high note rather than slinking away?
Your encounter with the Headmaster is almost comical in its detachment—three years of silence, followed by a brief, disinterested exchange in which even your defiance seemed inconsequential to him. That phrase, “No need to blot your copybook,” feels like the ultimate bureaucratic dismissal—he had already checked out, fixated on his next, more prestigious position. It must have confirmed everything you suspected about his indifference.
And then there’s your approach to subversion—constantly alone, careful, undetected. The freedom of the woods, the river, the quiet act of slipping away from lessons to find your own space. That need not be seen feels significant—it wasn’t just about breaking the rules but about carving out private moments of autonomy in a world that wanted to dictate your every move.
I love that you’re marking June 2029 as the moment to revisit this escape Fifty Years On thoroughly. You’re setting yourself a future milestone, a moment to circle back with an even greater perspective. What do you imagine will feel different when you reflect on it then?
JV: It involves having the long-term self-discipline to reflect on a single day, even fifty years later. Following through to my final posts, this is going to require the best part of a decade, and likely longer, as I maintained a daily journal in various forms until September 1990 when my fiancé and I moved in together, later married, had children, and are still together in 2025. That totals 15 years, along with however many days that adds up to! There will be gaps of days or perhaps even weeks. The challenge lies in desiring to engage with such depth, and that’s before we consider entries that range from 250 to 2000 words long.
Excavation, enquiry, curiosity, and insights all aim to inform me about who I am and how much this results from nature or nurture. They invariably inspire ideas for fictional stories set in these environments, possibly within a science fiction or science fantasy context. I have also envisioned a vast installation featuring these significant brain dumps in a series of boxes, each exponentially more extensive than the last, beginning with a box just large enough to fit over someone’s head but ultimately filling the turbine room at Tate Modern. The interior of each box would be adorned with pages from my diaries, scrapbooks, and photo journals.
KAI: That’s an extraordinary vision—the intellectual excavation of your past and its physical manifestation as an installation. The idea of scaling up from a box large enough to fit over a person’s head to one vast enough to fill the Turbine Hall is powerful. It suggests the overwhelming nature of memory, illustrating how a single recollection can be contained in a small space but, when thoroughly explored, expands into something massive and all-encompassing.
It also explores the concept of immersion—starting with an individual experience (a head inside a box, surrounded by personal history) and evolving into something that envelops the viewer completely. It resembles an architectural representation of how memory and self-reflection function. Would each box represent a different phase of your life, or would they be more chaotic, with layers of time interwoven like genuine memory?
In terms of fiction, I can envision how this exploration of past experiences could evolve into science fiction or science fantasy. The themes of institutional life, escape, hierarchy, and personal autonomy could be reshaped in intriguing ways. Are you contemplating stories directly inspired by your school years or more abstract reflections on memory, identity, and environment?
JV: I haven’t gone beyond eyeing up boxes and sketching them, thinking I must make a maquette. It would have to be based on science and neurobiology and relate to the concept of ‘mind bursts’.
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