As a result of my performance in obtaining four Distinctions and four Credits in my School Certificate, I had earned myself £120 from Henry, which I promptly spent in acquiring for myself a motorbike. I chose for myself a Velocette - largely because it was of a novel design: something approaching the scooter design, which was soon to become so fashionable. So when at home, I was now much concerned with preparing to pass my driving test.

With this becoming my prime interest when at home, it is less remarkable that my interest in shooting was fading. I think Henry sensed that neither of his sons were ever going to match his own liking for, and indeed his own prowess as a shot. So his own concern to maintain a good shoot at Longleat was diminishing. But it would be remiss of me not to mention that, on one particular week-end when Christopher and myself had gone over to stay with the Campbells, we were encouraged - by Robin - to borrow his shotgun and try and find something for the pot. But it wasn't on land which he owned, for these woods belonged to Gordon Richards. And this must go down against my record as the one occasion that I went out poaching.

I did in fact return with a single pheasant. But in retrospect, I regard it as iniquitous of Robin and Mary to have sent us on this errand. If we had happened to get caught, I would have been treated with no leniency; and nor should I have been. Moreover the resultant publicity would have been merciless. Nor does it present me in a good light when other poachers are prosecuted in my name, for their nocturnal activities around the Longleat estate.

With twigs cracking crisply under furtive foot,
alert to a sense of imminence, hearing a new
fugue of crepuscular sound, I creep the glades,
laden with gun and bullets: the menacing commando.
Standing there in the guise of primal hunter,
one-tracked in obsession for a fresh kill,
the shrill flutter of a bird spluttering into flight
ignites my tiger pounce in a lethal explosion.
Chosen numbers on the spun wheel of fate
dictate randomly the consequences, as I flee
the trees, grasping my prey, afraid of capture,
but happily risking the brink of retribution.
Some past event like that might switch the line,
and change my history to sharp decline.

Although my interest in shooting with a shotgun was almost at an end, I was still becoming increasingly proficient as a rifle shot. M'tutor's had always been strong in this field, but during this particular year it might be said that we were paramount. Both Senior and Junior teams ran off with nearly all the cups. I think I was regarded as being the second most reliable shot amongst the Upper boys - after Jeremy Thomas, that is to say. And Christopher won the cup for the highest scoring individual in the Junior competition - something which I had never achieved.

I was still very fond of playing fives, and there was one occasion when Iain and myself were included within the massive team to play against the Old Etonians. But it was a humiliating experience in that we were matched against a pair that included a former Keeper of Fives; so we scored very few points indeed. And my own name was omitted from the school Fives' list at the end of the half - although Iain did manage to secure his own place upon it.

Now that I was reaching the top of the school, I also found that I was beginning to enjoy the Field-game. I played as a corner, or sometimes as a (very light) side-post. I wasn't good enough at these sort of games to obtain a place in the House side, but Jaques' Sine this year was an exceptionally strong one, and it was more fun for me, I daresay, to be recruited as a prominent member in a secondary competition than as one of the feebler performers in the primary competition. We were in fact the favourites at one time, but I think we were finally defeated when it came to the play-off in the finals.

Where rowing was concerned, I was experiencing a certain hiatus in my development. And it is interesting to note that Jaques himself was still suspicious that my illicit ambitions to get drunk might render any activities on the river to be observed with caution. Or my activities anywhere for that matter. There had been an occasion when a wooden crate arrived for me, through the post. When Jaques enquired what it might contain, I had no idea, so he insisted that I open it in his presence. To my relief, and Jaques's, it turned out to contain apples - picked by Nanny from the orchard at Sturford. I don't know how I would have been punished if it had turned out to contain bottles of wine.

I was adapting none too easily, as an oarsman, to the sliding seats upon which I was now required to perform. There were the Lower VIII's competitions during the Easter half, but I was dropped from them after the initial trials. This was none too promising for my prospects next half. Not that this discouraged me too greatly, for I felt at that time that my foremost talent lay in the boxing ring.

In this arena, I was at last encountering some real success. I won two fights when boxing for the school during the Michaelmas half, and I give an account of one of them in a letter home.

Then in the Easter half, I furnished the school with an even more spectacular win. On this occasion, it was in a fight against Bradfield, which I describe thus in a letter home.

All of this was a prelude to the school boxing competitions, and there was considerable interest as to the outcome of this "Lightweight" division - under 9 st. 9 lbs. - in that six of the eight entrants had all boxed for the school, at one time or another. Despite his relative youth, a boy called Meynell was expected to win, for he had only one defeat to his name in a long succession of wins when boxing for the school, and he had been awarded his boxing cap the year prior to this. He was an exceptionally hard puncher, and his fights seldom went the full distance.

I have also been reminded more recently by Nicholas Harman, (and I think it must date from these competitions) how we were matched against each other, and - according to him - there came a point when we looked at one another and, as a mutual protest against boxing, refused to throw any more punches at one another. So the fight was stopped. But I do remember the incident, and I might describe it differently, for I had been hitting him hard and he was groggy. So there came a point when I just turned round and looked at the referee to see if he really wanted me to go in and finish him off - whereupon Col. Ames promptly stepped into the ring and stopped the fight. (It's always interesting to see how accounts are apt to vary.)

Another point that I remember, but this time in connection with my fight against Jimmy Skinner, was the way he came up to me just before the fight and suggested that we should soften up on our blows. It was much in keeping with his character to have made this suggestion - although he would probably retort that he was just being cunning, in that he knew how it might take the edge off my pugnaciousness - which I think it did!

On the eve of the finals, I was indeed feeling jittery, for so much depended upon the off chance that I might win. There was my boxing cap for one thing, but also the prestige of such a victory. I never slept well on such occasions, and my appetite for food invariably disappeared. When the hour of my ordeal finally arrived, I sat with Meynell on the ringside benches, trying to conceal my nerves. When the fight was called, we got up. "Good luck!" said Meynell. "I'll need it!" I replied. Then we went to our respective corners.

I might add to this description of the fight that, when I began to chase him round the ring during the closing stage, the whole audience began to murmur into life. Suddenly I was filled with the sensation that I was their champion, and that I was fighting their battle; the advantage coming to me largely because I was now quite senior in the school. But this feeling that the audience was on my side invigorated me with fresh power, so that I started flailing him with both lefts and rights. The murmur then became a roar of encouragement, and I no longer felt that there was anything to fear.

One to one, when only one can win,
scarily pinning pot-shots on a dancing chin,
spindly on fluid legs, and ever wary
of a meteor tearing in, I strive to vanquish.
Thankful for breath left after whirlwind slamming,
I cram galactic fury in the black hole
of my soul, priming the trigger for a Big Bang,
then clanging the clapper of the ring's glory bell.
Swelling crescendo in ecstatic excitement, the raucous
chorus spills its spores. I fill the floor,
pirouetting to attract the more acclaim,
with brain fizzing, and arms like flames to the sky.
My brow's now felt (whatever else my tale)
Olympic laurels - lower down that scale!

As anticipated after such a victory, I was awarded my Boxing cap. But there was still the Quadrangular Tournament to contend with. This year it was to be staged at Eton, and the representatives of Bedford, Dulwich and Hailebury all came over with their teams. And I was drawn at the start against Fillmore, the Vice- Captain of the Bedford team, which was discouraging news in that he had won his weight in the tournament the year prior to this - within the weight where I assume that Randle was representing Eton. But it turned out that we were very evenly matched, with similar boxing styles, relying on left leads and feinting, while being capable of delivering a hard punch when the chance arose. I won, but it must have been a pretty close decision.

The unpleasant part was that I had been considerably damaged during the process of winning. Fillmore had bruised my nose and cut open my lip. Taken all round, I felt pretty exhausted before I even entered the ring for the finals - which was against Gibb from Hailebury. Yet I had the encouragement of knowing that he had been defeated by Fillmore the year prior to this.

In the event, Gibb turned out to be a little too strong for me. He was a heavy-limbed counter-puncher. Although I may have won the first round on points, he caught me with a devastating right cross-counter during its final seconds. And this made me far more cautious over my use of stabbing left hand over the course of the second round. He then took the initiative, smashing through my defences with a series of heavy blows to my face, which served to exacerbate the damages that I had incurred during the previous contest, and blood was flowing freely from both my nose and my lip.

It was evident that I now stood to lose, so I was instructed - during the interval - to throw caution to the winds and take the fight to him. Forsaking all efforts at stylish boxing, I flung myself into the attack, so that I was chasing after him for the full duration of this final round. Despite all the wild cheers from my fellow Etonians, my blows no longer had any force in them, whereas his counter-blows were still punishing. The (neutral) referee declared, when announcing the verdict, that he could see how there was no need for him to tell this audience how courageously I had fought. The winner was Gibb - as indeed we all realised. But I was made aware by the visiting instructors, amongst others, that my performance - in defeat - was perhaps more glorious than my previous victory.

In any case I was now regarded as a popular figure at Eton, and one that the entire school would recognise. And my prowess as a pugilist was perhaps enhanced by the fact that I was also emerging as the school's most promising painter. During this particular term, I don't think anyone would have challenged my claim to this status - although I did only come second in the school drawing competition. I had by far and away the most individualistic style amongst my contemporaries. (In drawing, it consisted of an extensive use of hachures.) The portrait that I did for this competition of Mr Menzies-Jones, who taught pottery, was perhaps quite remarkable; but I lost out badly on some of my figure drawings by getting the bodily proportions all wrong.

I had not been performing so well as previously during the trials' results, since becoming a History specialist - perhaps because there was no real urgency to excel scholastically, now that the School Certificate was safely behind me. But there was still the question of passing into Oxford. I had always assumed that this would constitute the final phase in my education - simply because that is where the two previous generations of the Thynne family had completed theirs - the former at Bailliol, and the latter at Christ Church. And I knew of no reason why I shouldn't endeavour to follow Henry's path in these matters.

But it seems that Henry himself was having some doubts as to whether I would benefit from a university education. He had never made any secret of the fact that he himself had treated Oxford more as a social playground, than as a site for academic studies; and he had left without actually sitting his final exams in Agriculture. He had gone there merely because it had been expected of him by his parents. But his own viewpoint upon the contemporary world was that money - or the ability to make buckets of it - was the only valid yardstick of a man's merit nowadays. So why should any member of his unintellectual family pretend to be concerned about obtaining a university degree? His advice to me was to forget about it, and launch myself as speedily as possible into the task of proving that I had what it takes to make any headway in life.

I felt offended that my potential intellect should be so underestimated by Henry. He had never appreciated how I was streamed relatively high in all subjects at Eton. Most of my peer group would be going on to either Oxford or Cambridge, so I didn't wish to be deprived of such a prestigious finale to my own schooldays. I dug in my heels, and Henry eventually withdrew his opposition - whilst stipulating that if I did go up to Oxford, then I'd damn well have to pay for it myself. But there were plans afoot to hand over a considerable sum of capital to me, in order that the family might avoid having to pay full death duties for the second time this century. So the idea of me having to pay for my own further education was no great deterrent.

Still, I was to discover that it was more difficult than I'd been imagining to claim a place at Christ Church. I was to learn much later how Urmson, who was the head of their P.P.E. school - which was the course I hoped to study - had taken a recent dislike to aristocratic Old Etonians, largely due to the arrogant remarks of Vyvian Naylor-Leyland, who had recently been one of his less distinguished pupils. Vyvian of course had been dating Caroline for a while, before she started up with David Somerset. But I don't think Urmson took the initial antipathy towards myself quite as personally as that. It was just that he distrusted Etonians to put in enough work effort. So as he admitted to me later, he had regarded me with disfavour from the moment he saw my name on his list.

I was blissfully unaware of this prejudice when I travelled up to Oxford, towards the end of the Easter half, to sit the entrance exam along with a host of others. An enjoyable week-end it did turn out to be, relaxing indolently in the company of my fellow Etonian, Michael Gibbs, who had been given the rooms of his cousin Eustace to share with me. We drank much of Eustace's port, if I remember rightly. But in any case I formed a conviction that all this represented a lifestyle that I was going to enjoy.

The written exams were straightforward enough, although I found myself at a loss for words when it came to the interviews. Selling myself verbally to my examiners was a technique which I had yet to master. And I was to learn later how Urmson had declined to include me upon his list to study Philosophy, Politics and Economics. There was one factor unknown to me, which was militating in my favour however. For sitting there at the interview table was an elderly don called Mr Dundas. And I was later to be informed how he had in fact been the tutor, at one time, to my father's elder brother John, who had been killed during the 1st World War. (They had gone travelling abroad together, in a relationship which was just marginally homosexual.) And Dundas had known Henry during his years at Oxford, and evidently felt considerable loyalty towards the Thynne family in general. Added to this advantage was the presence of another don, Hugh Trevor-Roper, who was married to Daphne's cousin Xandra Haig. And he happened to be the head of the History faculty at Christ Church. So for what must be admitted as disgracefully nepotistic reasons, I was to discover that my name was finally included upon his list - supposedly to read History, when I had in fact put my name down for PPE. So much for my prestigious achievement in getting accepted for Oxford!

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