Recollections of an Old (but young at heart) Oswestrian, circa 1952 - EPISODE 12, GOODBYE PREP... HELLO UPPER SCHOOL!

The morning of Thursday 17 September 1953 was a milestone in the lives of me, my brother, and sixteen boys who were about to bid farewell to the Lower School. Mr Williamson, the Headmaster, gave us a 'Prep' talk before leading us across the quadrangle to a new life at School House in the Upper School. There was a tinge of excitement and apprehension in the air... I was 11, Bernard 10.

Before drawing a veil over this first year at Oswestry School, as I read The Oswestrian covering this period, several long-forgotten events sprang back into my memory. In the Winter Term, along with several boys from the Prep, Bernard and I were deemed worthy of a mention on the football pages, and, later in the year, on Sports Day we won the tie-leg race together. Bernard also won the bucket and potato, and flat races. Our friend George Roberts-Jones won the egg and spoon in stylish fashion, guffawing as he accidentally (on purpose) bundled me over and streaked over the finishing line leaving me in third place. As a consolation to myself, and in a fit of pique, I stole the boiled egg and ate it later! Mentioning this to Bernard, he said he had considered doing the same, but thought the potatoes looked too hard and unappealing.

My bother confided he was still having nightmares about dog biscuits, and we joked that had there been a dog handling competition, with our background, we would have won it hands down and could have requisitioned some of the Winalot from our furry friends!

Later on in the year I managed to restore a little self-belief by coming second out of 33 in the Prep Triangle Race. I extracted the clipping below from The Oswestrian newsletter of the time, and it will be interesting for my peers to recall the names of twelve 'Newbugs' arriving as we moved out, many of whom would pass through School House as fellow boarders.

Although I wasn't much of a swimmer I enjoyed the sport, somehow fluking a very surprising first place in the Prep width freestyle at the Oswestry Town Baths where we held the annual swimming gala. Flailing about in an uncontrolled fashion, it was my finest hour, and one and only success in the pool.

The school open air pool was a different animal altogether, as any boy who had the misfortune to experience it will attest. Fed from a little stream which ran through the pretty, wooded dingle, lying beyond the kitchen gardens and the cow shed, it was more torture than treat and was viewed with trepidation by all bar the fearless few who relished a masochistic plunge into its glacial water. I was to learn, years later, that girls who lived nearby used to watch from the trees as we frolicked in, but mostly out of, the water.

View from the dingle

As you can see from the photos, one of which shows my brother wearing flippers, there were no changing facilities and clothes were shed at the side of the pool and left hanging over the surrounding fence for the short duration of the dip into this nightmare. The boy standing on the diving board was Glen 'Hutch' Hutchinson who, during the previous winter term, had narrowly escaped with his life having been buried under a huge snowball we had rolled from top to bottom of the Paddock where it finally fell apart with him underneath. I can picture Stoker, frantically digging into the snow as we all tried to extricate Hutch from this perilous situation. He was badly shaken and turning blue as we pulled him out, but recovered pretty quickly.

A couple of plunges over the width of the pool was all we were permitted to attempt at first, and that was enough for most of us as, it is true to say, our finer features were somewhat adversely affected by the sudden immersion into this freezing environment, and we could not wait to get out of the water when reaching the other side.

Finally, after saying our individual thanks and farewell to Ma Walton, the Prep Headmistress, we all fell in line behind Mr Williamson who, beaming broadly, gave us a Nelson-like exhortation about what  Oswestry School expected of us before leading our squadron of small boys across the playground.

I glanced over my shoulder as we climbed the short flight of steps to the grassy upper quadrangle where John 'Purdy' Tilley, with the help of several boys, conducted his meteorological work for the weather bureau, and mentally wished goodbye to the long wooden building. A few more strides and we passed through the stone arched doorway into the choppier waters of School House and the long corridor which was flanked by classrooms we would come to know well in the ensuing years.

We had arrived in the Upper School.