At school I joined the swimming club my last two summers there. I’d been dropping in to swim several times a week, year round, since I could remember and the thought of taking it a step further appealed to me. My routine was my own, at my own pace and strictly extra-curricular; lengths done at odd hours when I found a gap in my obligations. I think I’d always loved the water but I took it up seriously in the VIth form believing it to be a good compliment to Judo, now that I was “rated” and part of the team. We were spoilt for choice at school in terms of sports and even if you were affiliated to a given sport for that term – tennis, let’s say – as you had to be, in practice you could drop in on any number of other activities so long as you didn’t interfere with their competitive goings-on and, crucially I suppose, if you got on ok with the master who was running the show.

I did a fair amount of shooting at the .22 firing range under Mr Barfoot’s supervision. He was ex-army – a sergeant, or sergeant major, I think – and maintained a pair of leather lungs he put to good use with us during CCF afternoons on Wednesdays. I remember a strong, stout man in his late forties – with something of a belly – who I never doubted you’d rather have on your side in a punch-up. With us there was the bark, obviously…. But he was a kind man, willing and able to talk you through any doubt you might have. I suppose I had a good calling card with him as his lovely wife Pam worked as part of the catering crew at Judde and in my last years she consented to cutting my hair – at theirs – for a symbolic fifty pence a pop. At the range Mr Barfoot would often let me double my quota of permitted rounds, lending me his choice rifle for the duration. I’ve always been a bit of an unapologetic loner and not least in my choice of sports, never really being one for team affairs. After prep most days I’d head over to the running track for a jog and I’d often bump into Mr Barfoot on his way to the pool; at eight thirty going on nine at night. One of the things he was responsible for was the healthy pH of the water and he seemed to know what it all involved. Some days all we exchanged was a wave but at other times I’d stop and we’d have a little chat. He once asked me how much I ran and how often and I replied about four to five kms about four times a week. Trying to sound grown up I remember adding something along the lines that it could do me no harm and might probably be very good for me. I remember his huff of slight disagreement, “mmm…I’m not so sure…” I never did get out of him what might have been on his mind. My knees? It struck me as curious coming from someone who quite clearly had had a career in the army. He died a few years ago, I read. I don’t know about his wife.

At other times I rocked up at the climbing wall where Mr Prosser – “que en paz descanse” – would let me join in with other members of the climbing club for a scramble up the not-too-technically challenging sides of the wall. Mr Prosser taught me physics in my last two years leading up to GCSE and I cannot really say I found his teaching methods inspiring but, God bless him, he pushed me through the subject and got me a C grade which, when it was all over, I was delighted with! I much preferred him at the climbing wall, with his knickerbockers and clunky boots. His was a marked nasal voice and I think he called me “Huntrods this” and Huntrods that” right up until I left the place in 1990 when so many other masters, as of our VIth form, had relented and called us by our given names in our senior years.

Then there was hockey on the astro-turf run by Mr Sweitzer. He taught classics and had gone to Oxford with a cousin of my dad’s who, by all accounts, is an accomplished jazz musician and goes by the name of Pat Fish. “Are you related to Patrick Huntrods” he asked me sometime in my first year. I had no idea and had to ask my Granddad on my next exeat. I was then told he was part of the family “we don’t talk about” and the matter was left at that! I now know, as an adult, why that is… some day I might tell you about all that. In any case, Mr Sweitzer would let me rock up for a hack and by all accounts I might have been quite good at hockey, according to him, if only I’d tried. And so on for rackets, and squash and fencing and so on….

I’d love to remember the name of one of our main coaches at the pool; a sort of podgy Stevie Nicks who always wore grey sweat-clothes and sported a camel-toe; day in, day out. Alaric Smith will know whom I’m referring to as I remember him being part of the pool furniture for the five years we were at Tonbridge. Alaric was about as aquatic a human as you could find; I think his fingers and toes never wrinkled.

So I thought I was in pretty good shape when I joined the swimming club in the summer of 1989 but I was in for a rude shock when in our first session we were pushed through a tough medley, at something of a pace, that must have amounted to about 1800 metres. I was left breathless. And it all went on and up from there.

I’m an avid swimmer now (and have been for the last five years) and – do you know what ?– I still sort of base my routines on what I was taught then.