If there were two places in my first years at boarding school that I naturally sought as sanctuary from the quasi-institutionalized feral rough and tumble that we were subjected to, one would have been the Art School and the other the School Library. The library was large and very well stocked by any standards of comparison and served me as a quiet and welcome bolthole, when time allowed, to escape into a parallel universe of my own interests outside the constraints imposed on us by the school curriculum. I don’t think I was a particularly mature or academically brilliant  example of my age-group as a thirteen or fourteen year old, but I read broadly – albeit perhaps in a puerile and ill disciplined manner – and very much enjoyed losing myself in all sorts of books concerning geography and history in particular. I undoubtably inherited an interest in these topics from my father as he is passionate about them also. As I was growing up he not only nurtured my pre-disposition towards history by bringing so many stories to life over long car trips or on Sunday afternoons in the park but he also instilled in me, from an early age, the compulsive and healthy habit of reading. At bedtime I was always allowed a half hour of reading before lights-out. Unless I happened to have misbehaved particularly and he felt it necessary to punish me by denying me this pleasure, that last half hour before I went to sleep was never made to feel as a privilege or a treat of any sorts. It was just another part of my day as he proactively sought to foster in me a habit that he believed in. This might well be one of his greatest gifts to me. When I was sent off to boarding school – in particular the first year and a half that I remember as being particularly hard to adjust to – I found great solace and respite in the library, with its creaking floors and the delicious smell of books and bindings in the air.

Given my natural inclinations towards drawing and painting, the other part of the school premises that I desperately wanted as a refuge was the Art School. This building no longer exists as it has been replaced by more modern and better suited installations but I seem to remember the date 1928 carved into the lintel above the main door. Although well lit and ample enough, I found it on the small side given the size of the school. This perhaps reflected the perceived general attitude of the institution at that time with regards subjects that were deemed to be peripheral or of lesser importance. The man that ran the department was not only a very gifted artist but also a very capable administrator but he wasn’t at all inspiring or inviting in his manner, being very much an acquired taste and preferring to treat young initiates like ourselves with generous doses of ill disguised contempt and lots of sarcasm. His wasn’t the warmest of receptions (particularly if what he was responsible for happened to be something that you were interested in) but as we progressed within the Art School and grew older he softened somewhat and those of us that remained to the end grew to appreciate his dry and sardonic sense of humour; his, I suppose, was a form of “tough love”. The programme the school required him to teach for the external exams we were to take was classical and not exactly cutting edge but in fairness the foundations he instilled in us were extremely solid and have served me well over the years. Bernard’s sarcastic comments to us or not, the Art School with its fantastic natural light and in all its cluttered splendor – not least its radio playing music all day long – was a welcome focus of warmth. There is much about the time I spent there that I feel profoundly grateful for.