Winder House, Sedbergh School
Five Year Diary: I missed English because we had to go to Chapel. I’m not even sure why. It wasn’t Sunday. Perhaps it was instead of assembly in Powell Hall. Harmen gave the sermon. I can’t remember what it was about — something steady and moral, no doubt — but I remember the light through the high windows and the feeling that we were all slightly restless. Chapel on a weekday always felt like an interruption rather than salvation.
French was Petit Nicolas again. Mildly amusing, mildly tedious. Music followed — flute and piano. I went through the motions. I don’t think I played badly, but I don’t think I played with conviction either.
Break: pear and a sandwich. Efficient.
Latin was a disaster. ATTIB furious because I’d done the wrong prep. I’d missed the set text. Entirely my fault. He made a point of it. I could feel myself slipping behind in Latin — the slow dread of a subject becoming fog.
Divinity. Then more Music. Bach this time. Ordered, mathematical, reassuring. If only Latin declined as neatly as a fugue resolves.
Lunch.
Unison practice afterwards — voices attempting unity, mostly producing noise.
Then the real event of the day: pot-holing on Ingleborough with ND, OY, JC and Newman. Games kit on. I imagine we crammed into the back of the House Assistant’s car, knees everywhere, pretending this was an expedition of consequence.
Helmet and lamp on my head — I felt faintly ridiculous. Like a minor character in a disaster film.
Inside: cold beyond expectation. Wet limestone. The smell of earth and mineral. A narrow tunnel with a black pool stretched right across it — I nearly slipped in. That would have been something to explain. I banged myself and felt a sharp pain for the rest of the crawl. You discover very quickly in a cave how small and breakable you are.
Back to House, shivering.
Bread. Milkway. Whatever else could be found.
It strikes me that most days you’d end up at some point soaked to the skin and feeling hungry abd cold.
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