Matters of the heart are, of course, the stuff of most great art — literature, opera, drama — and it could be argued that discussing them, analysing them, speculating about them, is an important part of the learning experience. There is certainly some truth in this, within limits. But at Dartington there were no limits to our freedom to lounge around gossiping. Since we had no external incentives to study and no penalties for not doing so, we naturally preferred to attend to the urgent concerns of our own and our friends' private lives than to focus on such matters as the pros and cons of the 1832 Reform Bill. Yet learning about the Reform Bill — which one is unlikely ever again to have an opportunity of doing — provides insights into politics which may prove very valuable in later life. Studying one's emotional life, on the other hand, can be done outside school hours.
I have never quite forgiven Dartington for allowing me to waste so much time — for not spurring me on to learn more. For example, I didn't even try to attend classes in physics or chemistry, which at that time were still regarded mainly as "boys'" subjects; I gave up on biology because I found it too demanding; and after being thrown out of a geography lesson for disruptive behaviour, I dropped the subject altogether. Treating schoolchildren like adults is all very well in some respects, but when it comes to school work, it is utterly wrong-headed. Most children, and quite a few adults too, need sticks and carrots. It was only when I started working for O- and A-level exams that I discovered that Noël Coward had had a point: "Work is more fun than fun."
Not that we didn't have fun at Dartington. One of the greatest sources of enjoyment, as far as I was concerned, was ballroom dancing. Once a week a tall, burly, jovial man who worked somewhere on the estate would arrive in formal jacket and tie and teach us proper dance steps. He had a very straight back, I recall, and his bottom stuck out slightly while dancing (as many people's do). Foxtrots, quicksteps, waltzes, polkas, even tangos were all part of his repertory. He would have a twirl with each of us in turn, demonstrating how to hold, or be held by, your partner and how to move in unison. We would practise "slow-quick-quick-slow" to the records of Victor Silvester, one of the most popular dance bands of the day. Even more fun was dancing, or rather jiving, to the school's live jazz band when they held "sessions" on Saturday evenings.
All this now seems impossibly old-fashioned. But I have been convinced ever since that, for a majority of people, dancing — however inexpert or self-taught — is one of the most therapeutic activities on earth and one of the most effective ways of achieving happiness, even if temporary. Unfortunately there isn't nearly enough social dancing in 21st-century England, not at any rate in the circles in which I move. And most schools seem to have dropped it years ago.
But the activity for which Dartington was best known, or perhaps most notorious, was nude, mixed bathing. The senior school had a swimming pool — about two minutes' walk away from the main building — at which swimming naked was the order of the day. Teachers as well as pupils — or anyone of any age who wished to use the pool — were expected to take off all their clothes, leave them lying on a grassy bank, and avail themselves of this liberating experience.
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