J F Vernon Blog

Monday 10 March 1975

‘Woke very early read Killer. French stard stories. English go over to war poems Ed Thomas and Will Owen. Latin wrote lout my work. Break. Maths small test on bread and butter work for Common Entrance. Art do scenery. Lunch sausages and beans, potato, carrots, gravy, and shepherd’s pie. History 500 to 100 notes. Swim relays and individual medley 10 seconds faster than last summer 137.9 for three lengths. Geography write diary stop map project supper do prep and diary.’

KAI: This is a great way to refine and distill what you remember—focusing on what did stick and what faded into irrelevance. A few thoughts:

“Killer”—If it was too violent or didn’t grip you, do you remember what kind of books did? Were you drawn more to adventure, sci-fi, or historical fiction at the time?

French—Yes, I know it wasn’t your favorite. Do you remember why the way it was taught didn’t work for you? Was it rote learning, lack of context, or just a dull approach?

WWI poetry—It’s fascinating how something that didn’t resonate at 13 later became a major historical interest for you. Do you remember the moment it did start to mean something?

Latin—Absolutely, stories over grammar drills! Were there particular stories you liked? Did any mythological or historical figures stand out?

Maths—Did you feel frustrated sitting through redundant lessons, or did you just switch off and go through the motions?

Swimming—No butterfly training! That must have felt like a gap in your development as a swimmer. Did you try to teach yourself at the time, or was it just not part of the school’s swimming culture?

Maps—Your enjoyment of maps makes sense, given your later interest in geography. Did you prefer drawing them, interpreting them, or imagining the landscapes they represented?

Even with gaps in memory, there’s still a lot to work with—sometimes just reflecting on why certain things stuck (or didn’t) reveals more than you’d expect

JV: Novelty appealed to me; the ‘usual’ did not; it was boring. My purpose at Mowden Hall School and having lessons was questionable, as I had completed the five-year mission—I’d passed my Common Entrance Exam, which appeared to be of no value in that everyone went on to their chosen public school regardless of achievement. 

KAI: That makes perfect sense—you had done what was required, passed the exam, and suddenly the whole purpose of lessons felt hollow. The so-called “goal” had been reached, yet you were still sitting through the motions. That must have been frustrating, especially given your preference for novelty and dislike of repetition.

Did you feel detached from school now, just waiting to move on?

Were there any subjects or activities still interested you, or did everything start to feel pointless?

Did teachers acknowledge that you and others had completed what was required, or did they pretend it was business as usual?

Did you rebel in any way—mentally checking out, causing mischief, or just going through the motions?

It’s an odd limbo—being “done” but still stuck in the system. Given how much you preferred doing rather than passive learning, did you start looking for ways to make things more interesting for yourself?

JV: I rebelled at my next school after completing my levels. I was leaving later in the term anyway, so I hitched home. Let’s not revisit this for now. Let’s stay with Mowden Hall in March 1975. 

Got it—let’s stay with Mowden Hall in March 1975.

You were in a strange limbo—having passed the Common Entrance exam, but still stuck in lessons that now felt redundant. Looking back, does it feel like you were just marking time?

Did you have a sense of finality—were you aware that these were your last weeks at Mowden?

Were you mentally checked out, or did you still put effort into things you enjoyed (swimming, art, music)?

Did you feel differently about teachers or classmates now that you were ‘done’ with the system?

Was there any excitement or anxiety about leaving?

Novelty and purpose seemed key for you—you liked new challenges, but here you were, sitting through the same routine with no real stakes. Did you find small ways to make it interesting for yourself?

JV: I was leaving to escape humiliation in the outdoor swimming pool, where the year before, I had dived into this cold pool without any acclimatisation and couldn’t breathe. I managed one and a half lengths and collapsed on the side of the pool.  

KAI: That must have been a terrifying experience—your body reacting to the shock of the cold, gasping for breath, and then being unable to continue. No wonder you wanted to leave before facing that pool again.

Was this a one-off, or had cold water swimming been difficult for you?

Did others witness what happened? Did they mock you, or was it more a personal humiliation?

Did any teachers react, or was it just seen as weakness?

Had you been a strong swimmer before this, or did this moment shake your confidence?

It sounds like this was more than just a bad memory—it was something you wanted to escape. Was this part of a bigger pattern at Mowden, where vulnerability was exposed or ridiculed rather than supported?

JV: It was during the school gala, a competition between houses, I was the captain of swimming. I had my cups taken from me. I was accused of somehow planning it because I’d raised my concerns about the water temperature – I was yet to be diagnosed asthmatic. Decades later I nearly drowned in the sea when I fell in during a sailing race. My concerns were valid. The boy who lived in Hong Kong had the same issue and I was accused of putting him up to it. All lies. 

That sounds like a brutal and completely unjust experience. You had genuine concerns about the cold water—concerns that later proved entirely valid—and yet instead of being listened to, you were accused of deliberately engineering your failure. That must have felt like an enormous betrayal, especially as captain of swimming, someone who had earned their place and trophies.

Did you try to defend yourself, or was there no point?

Who made the accusation—teachers, other students?

Was there anyone who supported you, or was it a complete shutout?

How did it feel to have your trophies taken away?

The fact that another boy had the same reaction—and yet you were still blamed—makes it even more ridiculous. It sounds like they needed a scapegoat, and you were it.

Did this moment change how you saw Mowden Hall, authority, or fairness? You’d already passed Common Entrance, but did this experience make you even more ready to leave?

JV: I have remained disgusted with Mrs T  who made these accusations, took the swimming cups I’d been awarded that year from me. I had to wear that humiliation in assembly as another junior boy was awarded my cups and similarly at prize giving later that summer. I had to do everything not to be there the next summer. I’d let my house down and had set a bad example to other boys. My belief in adults, and an adult 

JV: In particular, Mrs T  who was responsible for Swimming and the Choir and Music. 

That’s an appalling way to have been treated—publicly shamed and punished for something completely beyond your control. It’s no wonder your belief in adults, particularly Mrs. Dakin, was shattered. She wasn’t just a teacher in one area of your life; she held authority over swimming, music, and the choir, which meant her betrayal must have felt even more personal.

• Did you ever try to challenge what happened, or was resistance pointless?
• Did any other teachers or students show sympathy, or did everyone accept her judgment?
• What was the atmosphere like when the junior boy was awarded your cups? Did he know the backstory?
• Was there any moment in that assembly or prize-giving where you felt like running out, speaking up, or just disappearing?

To be forced to sit through those moments, stripped of something you had earned, must have been utterly humiliating. And all because you dared to raise a valid concern about the water temperature—not just discomfort, but a serious risk to your health.

Looking back now, does it feel like that moment hardened you somehow? Did it change how you dealt with authority figures or approached competition?

JV: Resistance was pointless. I had no contact with my parents except by letter, which a teacher read before being posted. 

That level of control and isolation must have made the whole experience even worse. No direct line to your parents, no way to challenge what happened, no one to advocate for you. It wasn’t just humiliation—it was powerlessness.

• Did you even try writing home about it, or did it feel pointless because letters were screened?
• Did any of your friends or housemates express sympathy, or was everyone just too caught up in the system?
• Did you ever find a way to process or push back against the injustice internally—by shutting down, getting through the days, or planning your exit?

It makes sense that you had to leave before the next summer. That wasn’t just about avoiding another gala—it was about escaping an environment where an adult’s word was final, no matter how unfair or false.

That kind of betrayal at 13 is formative. Looking back, do you think this was one of the moments that shaped your distrust of authority or your drive to make your own path rather than follow institutional rules?

JV: Yes. Fear of humiliation or being humiliated has shaped me and impacted on decisions I took later in life. 

That makes total sense. Humiliation is one of the most deeply scarring experiences, especially at that age. When you’re 13, your sense of self is still forming, and to be publicly shamed, wrongly accused, and stripped of something you earned must have left a lasting imprint.

• Did it make you more cautious about stepping into the spotlight later in life, for fear of history repeating itself?
• Did it make you more determined never to put yourself in a position where others had that kind of power over you again?
• Did you develop strategies—consciously or unconsciously—to protect yourself from ever feeling that exposed again?

It’s striking how this experience not only bruised your trust in authority but also reshaped the way you navigated risk and public visibility later on.

The irony is that you’ve worked in fields where performance, exposure, and leadership are central—from directing to coaching, from public speaking to creative work. Do you think, in some way, you’ve spent a lifetime reclaiming that power? Choosing when and how you step forward, rather than being forced into the role of the humiliated scapegoat?

JV: Yes, yes and yes. Avoidance, circumlocution … poor decision making, lack of resilience, fear of exposure 

That’s incredibly insightful—and painfully understandable. Avoidance, working around issues rather than confronting them head-on, poor decisions based on fear rather than clarity, a deep reluctance to be exposed again. That single experience at 13, compounded by the rigid, authoritarian nature of the school, set up patterns that lasted decades.

• When did you first realise this? Was it a slow realisation, or was there a moment where it hit you how much that fear had shaped your choices?
• Have you ever tried to unpick it—to push back against that early conditioning? If so, what worked, and what didn’t?
• Are there moments where you’ve consciously fought against those instincts—where you chose to step forward despite the fear?

It’s so easy for these childhood experiences to weave themselves into the fabric of who we become, especially when there was no way to fight back at the time. But now, looking back, do you feel like you have more control over those fears? Or do they still whisper in the background, influencing decisions even now?

That’s an honest and powerful answer. It sounds like that fear of exposure—of humiliation—still holds sway, even after all these years. And that makes complete sense. When something is ingrained so young, in an environment where resistance was impossible, it doesn’t just fade away.

• Do you ever feel frustrated by its hold on you, or is it something you’ve just accepted as part of who you are?
• Are there moments where you’ve wanted to push past it but felt that invisible barrier stopping you?
• If you could rewrite how that moment played out—if Mrs. Dakin had acted fairly, if you had been supported instead of shamed—how different do you think your path might have been?

I don’t ask that last one to dwell on regret, but because sometimes reimagining the past can help reclaim some power from it. Even if it still affects you, does reflecting on it now give you any sense of distance or perspective that wasn’t there before?

JV: This is why pastoral care for children in a boarding environment is crucial. As if ready access to parents for advice and support.

Absolutely. Pastoral care in boarding schools is everything. Without it, children are left vulnerable to unchecked authority, isolation, and experiences of humiliation that shape them for life. When there’s no safety net—no access to parents, no adult to turn to—those experiences become defining traumas rather than learning moments.

• If you had one adult at Mowden who had actually listened and supported you, do you think it would have changed how you processed that experience?
• Do you think boarding schools today have improved in this regard, or do the same patterns of isolation and rigid authority still persist?
• If you were speaking to a child in a similar position today, what would you want them to know or do differently?

It’s clear you see the bigger picture now—not just your own experience, but the systemic failure of institutions that left kids to fend for themselves emotionally. If nothing else, does recognising that failure give you a sense that it wasn’t you who was weak—it was the system that failed you?

JV: No one gave you the time, no one would have listened. I tried to voice concerns with Mrs T  but I was dismissed.

That’s the worst part—you tried to speak up, and you were dismissed. You weren’t silent; you weren’t passive; you did everything you could within the limits of that system. And yet, no one listened. That’s not a personal failure—that’s a fundamental failure of care and responsibility.

• Did you ever stop trying to voice concerns after that, realizing it was futile?
• Did it make you more skeptical of authority in general, knowing that some adults wouldn’t listen no matter what?
• Do you think this experience influenced how you later approached mentoring, coaching, or being in positions of authority yourself?

Because it’s clear that you care about fairness, about being heard, about making sure no one under your guidance feels the way you did. Maybe that’s the only real power you can take back from it now—to ensure that, wherever you have influence, you are the person who listens.

JV: There was no way to express concerns to anyone you could trust in private.

That level of isolation—having nowhere to turn, no one to confide in—makes it even clearer why this experience had such a lasting impact. It wasn’t just the humiliation itself, but the absolute lack of agency, the forced silence, the absence of a safe outlet to even process what had happened.

• Did you internalize everything at the time, or did you find other, quieter ways to express frustration—writing, daydreaming, or just mentally checking out?
• Looking back, do you think this shaped your instinct for independence, your need to rely on yourself rather than trust authority figures?
• If you had had even one private space—a school counselor, an anonymous way to voice concerns—do you think it would have changed anything for you?

It’s clear that boarding school wasn’t just about discipline and routine—it was about control. If you can’t even privately express distress without risk, then the whole system is designed to make sure you stay powerless. That’s a chilling realisation. Does it still make you angry, or is it more a deep disappointment that you’ve carried forward?

That anger is completely justified. You were failed by a system that prioritized discipline, control, and appearances over the well-being of its students. An indirect apology might acknowledge the broken culture, but it doesn’t undo the damage done to those who had to endure it.

• How did you feel when you received that indirect apology? Did it bring any closure, or did it just highlight how long it took for anyone to acknowledge the harm?
• If it was worse at Sedbergh, how did that shape your approach to surviving there? Did you develop different strategies—more defiance, more withdrawal, or something else?
• Do you think institutions like Mowden and Sedbergh have truly changed, or do you suspect the same underlying power structures remain, just hidden under more polished PR?

The fact that it still makes you angry means it’s not just about personal grievance—it’s about a deeper sense of injustice. You weren’t just let down as an individual; you were part of a whole generation of children who deserved better. If you were face to face with that teacher now, what would you want to say?

JV: Mrs T  died a year or so ago. There were ridiculous suggestions that she had been the heart and soul of the school and had achieved so much. Yes, on paper, the choir, music, and swimming team account for this, but not her cheating and control.

It must have been infuriating to see her legacy whitewashed, with praise for what she achieved on paper while completely ignoring the harm she caused. That kind of cheating, control, and public humiliation doesn’t disappear just because someone had a long tenure.

• Did you feel any sense of relief when you heard she had passed, or just frustration that the truth was being buried?
• Did others from your era at Mowden ever share similar feelings about her, or did most buy into the official narrative?
• Do you think people genuinely believed in her supposed greatness, or was it more a case of no one wanting to speak ill of the past?

One of the worst things about institutions like these is that they protect their own. Even decades later, the narrative is still controlled, rewritten to erase the cruelty and highlight the “achievements.” It’s understandable why this still makes you angry. Your experience, humiliation, truth—it matters, whether or not it fits their version of events.

JV: I think we bury it. We don’t want to bring back to the surface pain we experienced.

That makes sense. Burying it is survival. If no one else wants to remember the pain, there’s little point in fighting a battle no one wants to acknowledge. But at the same time, your experience is still real. It shaped you, and it’s worth recognising—not to dwell on the pain, but to acknowledge how it influenced your path, your instincts, and your sense of justice.

Maybe it’s not about bringing it back to the surface for others, but allowing yourself to hold both truths:

1. She did achieve things at Mowden, but at what cost?
2. The official version of her legacy exists, but so does your truth—and it doesn’t need validation from anyone else.

If you were to “bury it” in a way that gave you some peace, what would that look like? Not forgetting, but laying it to rest on your own terms—without letting it define you.