Saturday 8 March 1975
‘Everything seems strange. Very good choir at assembly, to show off to Larchfield and Ardvreck boys. Had French mucked about. Then did some setting up of things for sevens, 1 table. And play without per football and cricket. Break. Play table tennis with Larchfield and Ardvreck boys. Watched two films. Lunch. Larchfield and Ardvreck boys had seconds of steak pies. Good matches. Saint Mary’s late, but won. B cut leg after many tries. Tried on some ski
clothes. Had masses of tea. Played table tennis with Brampton.’
KAI: This entry has a mix of events, interactions, and observations, but it also has an air of detachment—”everything seems strange.” That’s quite an evocative phrase. Do you recall why you felt that way? Was it the presence of the visiting schools? A change in routine? A sense of something shifting inside you?
Here are some prompts to explore further: Assembly and Showing Off: The choir’s assembly was to “show off” to the visiting boys from Larchfield and Ardvreck. Was this a performance of discipline and order for their benefit? Did you feel proud, or did it seem artificial?
French and Mucking About: Did the presence of visitors change the usual classroom dynamic? What did “mucking about” look like in a French lesson?
Setting Up for Sevens: You were involved in preparations—what exactly were you setting up? Was this rugby sevens, a common prep school sport?
Playing Without Permission: Did this mean playing without permission? Or without a teacher present? Was this typical?
Sports and Table Tennis: There’s a lot of social activity in this entry—playing table tennis with different schoolboys, watching matches, and referencing football and cricket. Did you enjoy these interactions, or did they feel more like structured obligations?
Two Films: What were they? Were they the typical old-school educational reels or something more exciting?
Saint Mary’s Winning & Johnny Blair’s Cut Leg: The mention of Saint Mary’s being late but winning—was there a sense of fairness or injustice in that? Was Johnny Blair cutting his leg “after many tries” in a rugby match? Was he particularly accident-prone or just determined?
Ski Clothes: Was this in preparation for a trip? Did they feel exciting or impractical?
‘Masses of Tea’: A comforting image. Was tea a big ritual at school, especially on sports days?
Final Table Tennis Match with Brampton: You were quite involved in table tennis that day. Did you consider yourself good at it, or was it just a fun, accessible way to socialise?
Looking back, does this day stand out or blur into the general boarding school routine? Would your past self have described the day differently with a few years’ hindsight?
JV: It felt strange to have ten Larchfield and Ardvreck prep school boys and staff, amongst our number. I cannot recall how they were accommodated. We treated them like guests. It was an excuse to play a lot of table tennis.
KAI: That sense of strangeness—having outsiders in a closed environment—must have shifted the usual school dynamic. Did it feel like a performance, having to be on best behavior for them? Or did their presence break the monotony in a welcome way?
If they were treated as guests, was there a sense of hierarchy? Did they follow your school’s rules and routines, or were allowances made for them? You mentioned they got seconds of steak pie at lunch—was that a privilege not normally extended to your schoolmates?
The table tennis seems to have been a highlight—perhaps a neutral, easy way to interact with the visitors without the formality or competitiveness of team sports. Did you find that the usual social pecking order among your schoolmates softened with the arrival of the visitors, or did it stay firmly in place?
Also, were there any questions about their schools? Did they seem different—stricter, more relaxed, wealthier, or more rough-and-tumble? Or did they slot in as just another group of boys in the same system?
JV: So many questions. It’s possible that one of these boys later turned up at Sedbergh, then at Oxford and we even shared a house in London. Our live-in teacher Mr T may have been at Larchfield, as we called it, for a short time before he came to Mowden in September 1972. The purpose of the boys staying over was for a Sevens Rugby tournament on the afternoon.
KAI: That’s an extraordinary thread of connection—one of those boys potentially weaving in and out of your life for decades. Do you remember realising the link later on? Did it feel like a strange coincidence or the natural consequence of moving through the same narrow educational pipeline?
Mr. T’s connection to Larchfield adds another layer—did you ever discuss it with him? If he had been at Larchfield, did that shape his approach to teaching at Mowden? Was he different from other staff in a way that might have reflected that background?
The Sevens tournament makes sense as the reason for their stay. Did the visiting schools bring their best players, or was it a mix? You mentioned Saint Mary’s arriving late but winning—was that frustrating for the teams who had been there from the start? Were there any memorable moments from the matches—big plays, underdogs winning, or injuries like B’s cut leg?
JV: We had a greater kinship with other boarding prep school boys than with ‘day school boys,’ whom we considered softer and less worldly because they still lived at home. There is an element of their being spoilt, having a few treats, and time out of class. There was an element of our being on show. The schools were and are still very similar. A grand family home set in many acres of grounds and woodland converted into a private preparatory boarding school for around 100 pupils.
KAI: That sense of kinship with other boarding prep school boys makes perfect sense—you shared the same regimented, away-from-home existence, whereas day school boys, by contrast, still had the comforts of family life. Did you ever envy them, or did you feel a kind of superiority in the independence and toughness that boarding school seemed to instill?
Interestingly, the visitors were slightly “spoilt,” enjoying extra treats and time out of class. Did you resent that, or did it feel like a fair perk for being the guests? And if you were “on show,” does that mean the school wanted to impress them—or their teachers and parents?
Your description of the schools—grand family homes turned into boarding prep schools—captures the world they belonged to. There’s something almost feudal about it, these small, elite institutions replicating themselves across generations. Did you feel, even then, that you were part of a system designed to shape a particular kind of person? Or was that something you only realised later?
JV: The elitism I described to my wife and daughter last night could be vile. On a bus back from a game away or trip, if we spotted someone of another colour, say of Indian heritage, the boys yelled ‘Pakki’ out of the window and if we saw kids from the care home up the road, Stelling Hall, we yelled ‘Steller’. The teachers never stepped in to stop us. They ought to have instilled in us a more Christian and civilised behaviour – but I dare say they too were elitist bigots.
KAI: That’s a brutally honest reflection. The casual cruelty, the pack mentality, and the complete lack of intervention from the teachers are all part of a system that bred a certain entitlement and reinforced a rigid social hierarchy. It must be deeply unsettling to look back on and recognise how ingrained that elitism was, how it shaped behavior, and how unchecked it went.
The fact that shouting slurs at children from a care home or people of a different race was normalised—and even encouraged by the group’s laughter or approval—speaks volumes. You were just kids, absorbing the values of the environment around you, and without any challenge from authority figures, that behavior became part of the culture. It raises the question: Did the teachers quietly approve, or were they indifferent?
Did you ever feel discomfort about it at the time? Was there a moment when you started questioning it? Or did it take distance—perhaps moving to Sedbergh, Oxford, or later experiences—to see it for what it was?
It’s powerful that you can now articulate this so clearly to your wife and daughter. How did they respond? Was it shocking to them, or did they already know how these schools operated?
JV: Some teachers condoned it, and a teacher who later went to teach in the state sector wanted to give something to the less privileged. This behaviour, bullying, the hierarchy, poor teaching, the restrictive and stultifying atmosphere of Sedbergh had me reject the system, and often the boys who went through it, wholesale. It brought out the worst in some people.
KAI: That’s a stark and damning assessment of the system—and it makes complete sense why you rejected it wholesale. It wasn’t just about the privilege; it was about the embedded cruelty, the hierarchy that allowed the worst behaviors to flourish unchecked, and the way it shaped certain boys into adults who carried that entitlement and arrogance forward.
The fact that one teacher left to work in the state sector suggests that not everyone was blind to it—did you ever talk to him about why he made that move? Or did you only realise the significance of his decision later?
Your reaction to stepping away and rejecting not just the system but often the people it produced speaks to a deep disillusionment. Did that rejection feel like a clean break, or did you find remnants of that world creeping back into your life, through university, work, or social circles?
Some boys must have also seen its flaws—did you find kindred spirits at the time, or did that awareness come much later, when you met others who had also broken away?
JV: B became a vicar!
KAI: That’s an interesting turn of fate! Do you think his time at school shaped that decision? Was he always thoughtful and moral? Or was it more of a rebellion against the harshness of that world, a conscious move toward something more compassionate?
Looking back, do you recall any signs that he might go in that direction? Or was he just another boy caught up in the same system at the time, only later finding his path? It makes you wonder how many others took unexpected turns after leaving that environment—some doubling down on what they were taught, others rejecting it completely, like you did.
JV: Three years later I felt I was in the vanguard of boys leaving Sedbergh to attend a day school closer to home. It was quite a revelation to find B doing the same as he was, by then something of a rugby and running star. He must have felt similarly.
KAI: Being at a day school, at home every evening and weekend, freer to study what I wanted and how I wanted and pick my friends … with girls too was quite the change. It was still an all-male school, and running a grant system as a grammar school took boys on merit.
JV: This is four years away. I could have a male buddy and a girlfriend. That was plenty! At boarding school, under the house system, you had acquaintances forced on you – few were ever friends.
KAI: That contrast is striking—going from a system where companionship was dictated by circumstance and hierarchy to one where you could choose meaningful relationships. Having a male buddy and a girlfriend must have felt like a completely different social balance based on mutual liking rather than proximity or duty.
Did you feel yourself changing as a result—becoming more relaxed, more yourself? Or was there an adjustment period where you had to unlearn the ingrained behaviors of boarding school life?
Looking back at those boarding school “acquaintances,” do any stand out as real friendships, even in hindsight? Or was it mostly a case of survival—aligning with certain people to navigate the system rather than forming deep connections?
JV: I was an outsider, peripatetic, rarely making close friendships – too many close friends all vanished off to different boarding schools and I never saw them again. I gravitated to the underdog, the outsider, the more contemplative.
KAI: That sense of being an outsider, always moving, never quite forming lasting bonds—must have shaped how you navigated relationships later. Did you see it as a strength then, or did it feel like a form of isolation?
Losing friends so abruptly, with them disappearing to different schools never to be seen again, must have made it hard to trust in permanence. Did that make you hesitant to form close attachments, or did it make you value the ones you did form even more?
Gravitating toward the underdog and the contemplative suggests a quiet rebellion against the dominant culture of these schools. Did you find solace in those friendships, or was there always a sense that you were still on the periphery? And when you finally could choose your friends at the day school, did you consciously seek out those same kinds of people?
JV: Not really. Girls were a new world and they were my closest friends.
KAI: That makes perfect sense—after years in an all-male, rigidly hierarchical environment, the world of girls must have felt refreshingly different. Did those friendships feel more open, less competitive? Was it easier to be yourself with them?
What was it about those early friendships with girls that felt so significant? Was it the novelty, or did they offer a different connection—more emotional depth, less posturing? And did that shift in your friendships change how you saw the boys around you?
JV: I didn’t feel I was being measured or judged in the same way with female friends – and plenty were just that.
KAI: That must have been a huge relief after years in an environment where status, hierarchy, and competition shaped many interactions. With female friends, could you drop the performance and just be?
It’s interesting that you naturally gravitated toward friendships with girls. Did you ever get pushback for that from male peers who didn’t understand it or adults who had their own assumptions? Or did it just feel like a natural shift, without explanation?
JV: I don’t know. Rejection wholesale of the private boarding school ethos mattered though at Oxford it was a good deal of the same – young men and women largely privately educated with some ‘grammar school boys’ envious of their public school counterparts and those from the state sector like fish out of water. By age 18 I’d been away from home for a decade, but state sector kids (and day boys and girls) were living away from home for the first time. But now we’re skipping 5 or 6 years ahead!
KAI: That long stretch away from home must have given you a different perspective from those just beginning their independence at 18. By then, you were already used to navigating institutions, self-sufficiency, and being among an elite-leaning peer group—yet at the same time, you had rejected so much of the ethos that shaped them. That must have made Oxford a strange, liminal space for you—familiar in structure but different in spirit.
But yes, that’s a leap forward! Let’s pull it back to March 1975, the world of boarding prep school, the Larchfield and Ardvreck boys, the sevens tournament, and table tennis diplomacy. That phrase from your diary—“everything seems strange”—still lingers. If you sit with it, do you get any clearer sense of what felt strange? The presence of outsiders? A shift in how you saw your school? Or something harder to pin down?
JV: Most changes to the routine were to be enjoyed. With Larchfield, strangers were in our midst, and we had a break from routine. In 1972, or was it 1973? We had power cuts, which left us in the school without electricity at some points in the evening. That was surreal—like camping out, but in a building.
JV: That break in routine—the unfamiliar presence of Larchfield boys—stuck with you, even if the strangeness was more of a passing sensation than a deep disruption. Did it ever feel like these visits allowed you to see your school from the outside, through the eyes of the guests? Or did you just slot into host mode, treating them as temporary fixtures in your world?
The power cuts must have caused an extraordinary shift in atmosphere. Boarding school life was so structured and controlled—lights out at set times, bells, routines—that suddenly being plunged into darkness, unpredictability, and improvisation must have felt like a small rebellion by fate.
Did the power cuts change the social dynamic? Did boys behave differently without the usual systems in place? Was it thrilling, eerie, or just an inconvenience? And how did the school handle it—candles, torches, or just sending everyone to bed early?
JV: There were hurricane lamps. Every boy, certainly every DC, had a torch. Meals might have been prepared in advance in a batch and then eaten cold. We might have had a lunch bag, paper bags prepared in the kitchen containing a sandwich, fruit, and a packet of crisps.
KAI: That paints a vivid picture—hurricane lamps casting flickering light, the usual rigid routines softened by necessity, boys navigating darkened corridors with their torches. It must have felt like stepping into a different version of the school, where the usual structures faltered just enough to create a sense of adventure.
The batch-prepared meals and lunch bags suggest the school had some contingency plans, but was there a feeling of disruption, or did it all just carry on in a slightly altered way? Did eating cold food and no hot meals feel like hardship, or was it an amusing novelty?
And with the darkness in the evenings, did that change dormitory life? Was there more whispering, mischief, or a sense of camaraderie? Or did it all reinforce the self-sufficiency expected of you—torches at the ready, adapting without complaint?
JV: The sense of camaraderie sounds about right. I was younger then, and we gravitated naturally towards our DC or dorm prefect, as if they were an older brother or a junior officer in the army.
KAI: That dynamic—the DC as an older brother or junior officer—captures the structured but deeply ingrained hierarchy of boarding school life. It’s fascinating how those chain-of-command instincts remained intact even in moments of disruption like the power cuts. Did that camaraderie feel genuine, or was it just part of the system—something expected, rather than truly felt?
As a younger boy, did you look up to your DC in a reassuring way, or was it more about knowing your place and following orders? And when you later became a DC yourself, did you feel that same sense of responsibility toward the younger boys? Or did you see the role differently by then?
That mix of self-sufficiency and reliance on authority must have been a strange balance—learning to fend for yourselves in some ways, yet still deferring to those just a year or two older. Looking back, do you think it shaped how you viewed leadership, hierarchy, or brotherhood?
JV: I rejected all ‘leadership’ roles at Sedbergh out of hand and hated how I was always picked out.
KAI: That’s a strong reaction that suggests Sedbergh’s version of leadership wasn’t something you respected or wanted to be part of. Did you resent being singled out because it meant being pulled deeper into a system you had already begun to reject? Or was it how authority was wielded—discipline for the sake of discipline, rather than genuine responsibility?
At what point did you start pushing back against the system in your mind—was it gradual, or was there a moment where you fully saw through it and decided you were done with that world?
JV: It was a slow dawning at age 15. I wanted to study Art, but I couldn’t be accommodated. I hated the idea of what I might become, as so many of the more senior boys in my house were vile. My brother had asked to leave after O’Levels and told no. I made the case for the Royal Grammar School in Newcastle and my desire to apply to Oxbridge. I felt the system was antiquated. I didn’t think the education was that good. The privilege was a burden. There were no girls!
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