Stephen Robinson (RGS 1962-1969)

Life at Reigate Grammar School                                                                 

My first view of Reigate Grammar School was a visit to the library—not the current one, of course, but the one that was housed at the bottom of the stone staircase, beneath what was then the gym. Ever since being told, as part of the group sitting on the floor of Mr Price’s Headmaster’s study at Holmesdale Primary School, that I had passed the 11-plus, I had been a little apprehensive; but as I had been to five different schools since the age of four, and experienced four house moves, I was probably not too worried.

At an evening for new pupils and parents, I had my first view of Headmaster T. W. H. Holland, and we listened as he laid out his thoughts for the school day, ending at ten to four in the afternoon—followed by homework. We gasped with horror when he said that he thought we should be in bed by 8.00 in the evening!

Then came the purchase of uniform, which my parents felt was suitable enough for me to wear for the first time at a society wedding at a London church, for one of my cousins. My younger brother (and future RGS Head Boy) was a page in a silk shirt and blue knickerbockers, and my sister, in a white dress, was a flower girl. I must admit to finishing the reception with another cousin, hiding under a table and consuming (probably!) too much champagne from other guests’ glasses!

The first day at the new school was full of new and exciting things. Arriving at 9.30 (a later start than the rest of the school), we hovered around the area by the north side door, near the bicycle sheds (and rather disgusting outside toilets), until we were led up the stone stairs, past the chemistry labs, into the gym. There we were spoken to briefly, and then divided up into our form groups. These were based on school houses, named for ancient manor areas of Reigate: I was in Redstone, paired with Linkfield (1RL); there were also 1DU (Doods and Underhill), 1PK (Priory and Kinnersly), and 1WN (Wray and Northdown).

We were then led out in our form groups, down the main steps, through the back door and across the playground. Exiting onto the churchyard path, we turned left, then left again through a wicket gate, across a lawn edged with gravestones, and round the side of a large building—the Friends’ Meeting House.

Three rooms were used, in my recollection. On the left-hand side, two forms were placed—one upstairs and one downstairs; both, as I recall, were rather cramped, being fitted out with old wooden lidded desks. My form, however, went up the steps of the portico and between the columns. Where the fourth class went, I cannot remember!

We found ourselves in a huge, tall room, bounded on one side by wooden panelling, which we later discovered to be folding partitioning. This could be collapsed back to reveal fixed wooden seating on three sides, with raised seating across, joining the other two sides together. One at Wandsworth is similar and typical, built around the same time at the beginning of the 19th century. On certain occasions, the double room could be used for an assembly, such as one given by Aubrey Scrase, based on the Scouts’ trek cart experience and the frustration of the patrol leader—“If you can’t pull, for God’s sake push!”—a talk which I have unashamedly copied and given to students myself; or, on another occasion, for the Ragg Memorial Reading Competition.

However, on this occasion, we new boys entered a room bare except for folding exam desks and chairs, and a row of wooden storage “lockers”—without locks—in which to store our books. This would be our form room for the coming year, except when it was used as a music room, as it also contained a piano.

The route to and from the school and playground was always the one we had first taken, as use of the road or pavement was strictly reserved for Masters or Prefects. However, I did have one occasion to use it. Wet breaks meant hanging around, being bored, and, as it was a high room, a game of throwing the plimsoll developed across the room (no trainers then). On this occasion, the missile fell short and landed on the floor under a chair. There was a race to pick it up, and I was fractionally beaten to it, as my opponent lifted the chair at the same time as I went for it—resulting in the wooden chair back making contact with my forehead. The result: a large gash, which led to Aubs taking me down the road to the school office, before I was collected and taken for a couple of stitches.

On another occasion, during a break, I was scared out of my wits when a boy came in and told me to report to Prefect Day at the Broadfield Prefects’ Room. First, I wondered what I had done; then came the worry of encountering a strange building I had never visited before. When I found the room and enquired for Prefect Day, he came to the door to meet a trembling First Year, only to say, “Hi, I’m George. I am the boyfriend of your cousin Christine. Very pleased to meet you. If you have any problems, do come and chat with me.” Good to know—but I never needed him. Reader, he married her!

Of course, the difference in school routine was something else to get used to. From having the same class teacher every day in junior school, we now had a succession of different Masters, or occasionally moved to other places, such as the main school for PE, woodwork and art, or to Broadfield for the biology labs. There was also the complication of the six-day week, a prep diary with timetable, and, at the beginning of each term, a calendar detailing events, matches and a rota for house duties, such as litter collecting or lunch serving.

I certainly remember—though my recall fails in some subjects—Maths (Mr Brooks), English (Paxton or Westall?), History and Geography, RE, French (Howlett), and Latin. French was a bit of a case of unlearning: I had taught myself a little from a copy of The Schoolboy’s Handbook, and at my junior school we had taken part in an aural programme (listening and responding) using tapes. However, the system employed by RGS used phonetic books, which meant learning a new pronunciation alphabet and approach to the language.

And of course, we had the incredible Aubs for Latin, whose energy and skill had us almost dancing in our seats. Some masters arrived in their black gowns. Lessons were 50 minutes in duration. Everything was handwritten in the school’s printed exercise books; when one was full, you went to the room (or cupboard?) opposite the current reception at morning break, where Mr Coupland was to be found. On presentation of your old exercise book, a corner of the cover was torn off, and a new book issued.

I did occasionally visit the chemistry labs to buy savings certificates from Mrs Knight, who ran the scheme in the school. Biology, Physics and Chemistry were never attractive subjects for me; taken jointly at O-level, I could never quite understand why I needed to know, for example, that when a car tyre revolves the molecules move faster and create heat (19% in the Third Year Physics exam). I did, however, enjoy making patterns with pins, light and mirrors to demonstrate reflection, and so on.

Woodwork took place in the workshop, with the incredibly patient Mr Brooks, who guided us through the mortise and tenon of a seed dibber, the table lamp base, and dovetail joints in a wooden box with a lid (a tea tray in the second year). I was not a star here!

Mr Thompson was music; as I was already a treble in St Mark’s Church Choir, I enjoyed singing. The highlight for me that first year was performing in a concert in the gym. I had to sing a duet, “Blow Away the Morning Dew”, with Robert Dunn, and then, as part of a small group, sing the soprano part in the “Easter Hymn” (“O rejoice that the Lord has arisen…”) from the short opera Cavalleria Rusticana by Mascagni—a very ambitious piece.

We had also been given a pocket-sized hymn book. In one of our first lessons, Mr Thompson took us through “For All the Saints” line by line, so that we would get the phrasing right. Another task we had as First Years was to learn the whole of the first verse of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” in Latin—“Adeste Fideles, laete triumphantes”—as it was traditional to sing it at the carol service in December (I can still repeat it). Later in the year, we were all presented with an elegantly handwritten, named Bible.

And then there was PE. At first, we changed in a very cramped changing room, accessed through what now appears to be the school office, and along a small corridor towards the original Headmaster’s house. Here, too, were the initially dreaded showers—very small, very crowded, and all-in together. This was also the route to the staff rooms for many masters.

For PE, there would be the gym upstairs, with ropes, benches and vaulting horses, and occasional games of “Pirates”; the playground for shinty or basketball (a game in which I did not excel); or Broadfield, where—before the primary school was built—there was a large meadow with space for hockey and, in winter, snowball fights. In summer, there was swimming in the outdoor pool on the route down to the Headmaster’s house. It was not particularly inviting, as the water always seemed cold, and the changing room was in a large wooden hut. There was also voluntary swimming after school in the summer.

Break times were for wall-ball with a tennis ball, tennis-ball football at the bottom churchyard end, and playing around the other outside classroom buildings—West One and Two, and so on—now gone. At morning break, there was also a free third of a bottle of milk from the milk bar, which I believe was in the remains of a World War II air-raid shelter. Iced up in winter or turned by the heat in summer, it was not a pleasant drink, and I have been off milk ever since! A tuck shop was run at the bottom of the stairs by the prefects at lunchtime—often quite a melee.

At lunchtime, we juniors would line up by the back playground entrance and wait until we were told we could go up to the dining hall (later the sixth form centre, and nowadays the drama studio). Then it was filled with tables in groups. We had to wait at the doors, and once they were opened, we would stand at the tables until a prefect said grace—most often “Benedictus benedicat”—and rang a table bell, at which point everyone sat down.

The servers, in white jackets, would collect the first course from the kitchen hatches and deliver it to the tables, where it would be dished up by a senior boy. The school had its own large kitchen, which provided fairly good meals. There were two sittings: the servers for one were organised by house rota, and for the other by “voluntary” servers, who were given extra helpings of pudding as a perk (usually jam tart). Needless to say, I became one of those!

Perhaps the most memorable incident for me in the dining hall was both personal and public. I was one of those children who had to wear a wired dental plate fitted to the roof of my mouth. One day the wire broke, so I had to take it out and put it in my pocket. The next day, there was an announcement in assembly: “An object has been found in the dining hall; if you have lost it, please ask at the kitchen.” I realised this might be my plate, so I duly went up to enquire.

Shortly afterwards, a lady appeared—Violet Whitmore (I remember her well, as she always said her name as “Wee aye tea Mo are ee”)—holding one of the huge kitchen spoons, with my plate balanced on the end, and pointing it at me. “Is this it?” she asked, while all the kitchen staff looked on from behind the counter. I thanked her, we were all laughing, and I put it back in my pocket.

Talking of assembly, we had assemblies every day, first thing. The usual one for all Forms 1–5 was held in the gym upstairs, where we stood in form rows while the masters filed onto the stage. We had all been given a personal hymn book, and we usually sang a hymn; there were prayers, a reading, and announcements, after which we dispersed to lessons.

One day in the six-day week we had House Assembly—ours also in the gym—led by the current member of staff who was Redstone Housemaster or the Sixth Form House Monitor. These were intended to encourage sports and other competitions. There were no hymns on those occasions, as there were not enough musicians.

Games took place all afternoon and, for First Years in their first term, this meant rugby, which involved walking down through the town to the Old Reigatians Rugby Club at Park Lane. This required a fairly quick lunch before setting off on a variety of routes (or later, by bicycle) through the town in all weathers. Everyone wore short trousers—you were not allowed long trousers until the Third Form. Woe betide you if you were spotted by a prefect or master without your striped cap on your head!

Once at the pavilion, we changed in the cold, bare changing rooms and then went out onto the fields. On the occasions when one could see into the main bar room, there was the delight of looking up at the ceiling, papered with a large number of pictures of very “hot” ladies—well, they must have been hot, as they had all taken their clothes off! It was a particular misery on very cold days to be among those who had to take off their shirts to change to the reversible side.

After a long, physical session of running and hurling oneself at other boys, it was back to the pavilion, mass showers, and—for most of us—the long walk home. When I was able to cycle to school and down to Park Lane, one unfortunate incident occurred close to Bonfire Night: one stupid boy put a lit banger into my saddlebag, which subsequently burnt my shirt quite badly. My parents, of course, complained.

When the pitches were too wet or unplayable, we were sent to St Alban’s Road for cross-country. This was not a matter of a few laps around a field, but involved running up to the foot of Reigate Hill, along the bottom past Colley Hill, and then up a footpath straight to the top, along the ridge, and back down the chalk path to the field. Another route involved running down Somers and Manor Roads to the Clears, then up the track along the wooden sleepers to the foot of the hill. I once saw the last remaining miner there, working with his truck as we passed; I later found confirmation of this in an archaeological newsletter, as he retired around that time. From there, we would return along the Pilgrim’s Way.

Alternatives to rugby became available later in school life (Fourth and Fifth Form): hockey and cross-country from St Alban’s. Cross-country became my sport. I only took up rugby ten years later, playing for the Old Reigatians’ lower teams and helping with mini rugby.

In the summer, there was cricket at St Alban’s Road or athletics on the Wallfield field; changing there took place in a ramshackle hut with no seating. Later, I believe rooms became available in the Wallfield building on the north side. I also remember attending a “Corps Day” at Wallfield, when the CCF played at being soldiers, sneaking along ditches.

On two occasions each year, on a Saturday, we were expected to attend in uniform to watch Old Boys versus the School—at Park Lane for rugby in the winter, and at St Alban’s for cricket in the summer. We were checked in and out! For someone like me, not particularly sporty, these were a real bore.

Detentions could be given by masters, usually after school (or, in Aubrey Scrase’s case, on a Saturday morning at his house if you failed to learn the week’s Latin vocabulary). Prefects’ detentions involved physical exercise. The Headmaster could wield the cane.

I remember only vague details of Prizegiving, held, I believe, on Commemoration Day. A huge marquee was set up on Broadfield Lawn; the next morning, a couple of roof panels had been torn from top to bottom, presumably the result of some attempted prank. Needless to say, I never won any prizes.

On moving to the Second Form, we relocated to Room 8, a much better classroom in the newer wing, now extended to include the concert and sports hall. School life remained much the same, though we did have Mr Andrews for geography; he was very deaf, but had the remarkable ability to draw an accurate map freehand on the blackboard, which he tried to teach us.

In the Third Form, we were placed in West 1, one of the buildings in the playground. There was a change of Latin teacher to Mr Burrows, renowned for the rubber tubing kept in the sleeve of his gown (later replaced with butter pats), and we also had a weekly English lesson with the Headmaster, T. W. H. Holland, in which I remember studying T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land.

In the Fourth Form, we moved to an upstairs room destined to become a language laboratory. With O-levels approaching, choices had to be made: History or Geography? I chose History, as my interest had always been in social history—how people lived—but what we were taught was very different: Britain 1914–45 and Europe 1914–45, all politics, which rather put me off.

In addition to French and Latin, there was also a choice between Greek, German, or Spanish. For the life of me, I cannot remember ever discussing this with my parents or teachers. All I do remember is that we were gathered in the gym, the options were presented, and we were asked to choose by a show of hands. The first option was Greek. In my younger years, my Schoolboy’s Handbook had included the Greek alphabet, which fascinated me—so up went my hand, and I was committed to Classical Greek, in a set of three boys under Mr Keith Louis.

He was very proud of his small definitive stamp, on the back of which he had written the whole of the Lord’s Prayer. Sadly, I can still conjugate verbs and decline nouns in both Greek and Latin. Other Latin memories include: “What is it that roareth thus? Can it be a motor bus? Yes, the hideous noise and hum indicat motorem bum!” from the Approach to Latin textbook; and Aubs’ “Selfish Five and Two Halves,” something to do with irregular nouns—cubilis being one. How sad is that!

Other lessons learned for life included, quite literally, committing to memory—with Mr Walter—A. E. Housman’s “Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now”, as well as Hotspur’s speech from Henry IV, and acting out A Midsummer Night’s Dream under the trees on Broadfield Lawn.

On arrival in the Third Form, another choice had to be made: Combined Cadet Force (Army or Air Force), Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, or “Spud Club”—the latter being the Service Corps, i.e., doing jobs around the school. As a member of a Scout Group in Reigate, I opted for the Duke of Edinburgh Award as a parallel option. I achieved the Silver, though only after discovering that the First Aid course we had been sent on initially was actually a Midwifery course! I still have the written log of the Silver hike, which I walked with Richard Mantell, Robert Mollison, and Ian Bennett along the South Downs in 1967. I also completed a practice Gold hike in 1968 in North Wales with Tony Earl and Peter Taylor. On that occasion, we had piggy-backed on a large Horley District Scout event called the Easter Venture. Several coaches left for North Wales, and various expeditions were supervised across different destinations. On the way, our coach’s windscreen was shattered, so we spent a very cold journey until it could be repaired. At the end, my team—all Grammar boys—was photographed coming down the Roman steps, and we appeared in the local paper the following week. Later, in the Sixth Form, I assisted in training younger candidates. Notices for any events were pinned opposite the Art Room, next to the armory. The first classroom just inside the main door was used as a polling station on election days.

Entering the Fifth Form, our new room was apparently originally a dormitory for boarders, on the top landing opposite the prefects’ room, at the entrance to the gym and down some steps. There seemed to be a change in the attitude of the masters—a softening of touch—as GCSEs approached, especially under the Reverend Williams, who once cracked a joke about the ballroom in St Paul’s. When GCSEs arrived, I remember taking exams in the Art Room. Most annoying for me was having to sit Greek exams on Saturdays: one in the Art Room (where I struggled to remember hecaton, meaning “hundred,” which appeared several times), and the second in the upper room of the Friends’ Meeting House, where the desks were jammed next to each other and scribbled on from daily use—not tolerated these days (I was Exams Officer for many years before retirement). With only three candidates, however, and other exams taking place in the same room, it was not so bad.

My results were a mediocre batch, as expected; I failed History, but my major triumph was in Greek—I was the only one in the set to pass that year. Some of this success I attribute to two duplicated sheets of Greek terms and syntax from Mr Burrows, driven into my head while walking to school each day. I cycled over to see my results posted in the Art Room window. The results were enough to secure my place in the Sixth Form.

On the first day in L6AS (I only just realised this was named for Aubrey Scrace!), in the garden room at Broadfield, the first thing Aubs did upon entering was come straight up to me and shake my hand, in recognition of the Greek O-Level. I felt quite proud. Assemblies were held in the dining hall. Umbrellas were the norm rather than raincoats; I do remember having a coat that was slightly iridescent and purply, of which I was quite proud. On leaving after a lesson with T. W. H. Holland, I wore it, only for my parents to receive a letter the next day stating that raincoats must be blue. A visit to the second-hand shop produced a scruffy gabardine, but it did not stop me from wearing waistcoats—I remember a soft dark red one. Some invested in straw boaters. Break times were given over to games of Contract Bridge.

I also became involved with a new friend who arrived for the Sixth Form. I admired his italic writing style, which I went on to adopt and later found useful when teaching it myself. Together we produced and distributed a duplicated magazine; we produced a couple of multicoloured issues, though I have forgotten its name. He was the lead, and it was quite harmless, not particularly political. I also recall startling him in one Economics lesson at the end of the Art Room corridor: I had a horrific toothache and an emergency appointment in Woodhatch at a dentist I had never visited before. He gave me an anaesthetic, which my regular dentist did not use, and proceeded to extract the tooth with pliers. Once done, I walked back to school with my strangely numb mouth, up Cockshot Hill, and attended lessons. About an hour later, in Economics, the anaesthetic wore off, and I passed out, collapsing onto my friend with increasing weight. He was understandably surprised and alarmed!

Several milestones stand out from my time at the Upper Sixth, demonstrating that, because the Grammar School was geared primarily toward university preparation, it was not always suited to my strengths. Careers advice was poor; all I remember is one interview with the careers teacher, who suggested I train as a teacher for the deaf. My choice of A-Level subjects was not brilliant: Maths, English, and Economics and Political Studies—the only “fit.” English Literature was fine, and the master, Arthur Westall, was excellent. Two lessons stand out: one on Piers Plowman, which influenced my later college studies, and a copied history of English literature, which I memorised and was tested on in the O-Level General Paper at the end of the Upper Sixth, where I was able to reproduce it almost verbatim—and passed.

Robin Bligh and I agreed that I had reached my ceiling in Maths at integration and double differentiation. Economics and Political Studies were not my strong suit either. The high points were the ABC subjects—a response to criticism that the curriculum was too narrow. I took a year of Russian with Ken Farries and another of Chinese with Adrian Alabaster. Combined with French, Latin, and Greek O-Levels, reflection over the years suggests that no one recognised my language skills and aptitude. Poor A-Level results were insufficient for university, and being an older pupil, another year was not an option, as the new Head, H. Balance, told me in an interview halfway up the main stairs.

Nonetheless, I had a great time teacher-training at Christ Church College in Canterbury, which also offered a course in Medieval English Literature, where I excelled. Though it did not help much in primary school teaching, I eventually concluded my career teaching Maths, earning a B.A. through the Open University and a Master’s at Kingston.

One other occasion I recall from the Upper Sixth was a meeting—perhaps an assembly—in the opened-up Friends’ Meeting House, where a couple of representatives spoke about the Old Reigatian Association. When my grandfather heard about it, he offered to pay the life membership subscription of seven guineas. Subsequently, I received The Pilgrim every year and an invitation to the annual dinner. I ignored the latter until the 1980s, when I was living in a flat in Monks Court at the bottom of the hill and decided it would be nice to attend one, as it was in the dining hall and an easy walk. I attended, though there was nobody I recognised. However, I was asked if I would like to join the committee. I did, ostensibly to provide opinions on bursary candidates (from my Scout experience). After a few years, I was appointed Chairman for a year and chaired the dinner at an inn in Banstead. Attending dinners became a regular event; at the last one I attended, Sir Keir Starmer (RGS 1974-1981) was the principal guest. I suddenly realised I had been on the committee for twenty years and felt it was time to step down. Shortly afterwards, the RGS Foundation was established.

(Written 2025)
Robin Bligh (former staff) and the 16th Reigate Scout Troop

Robin was appointed to the staff at RGS in 1952 and, together with Michael Holmes, started the Troop in 1954. The Scout Troop was officially registered in February 1954 and began with three patrols, supported by older students. They wore blue uniforms with blue-and-white scarves, presumably to complement the school uniform, which in my time at RGS in the 1960s was worn to school on meeting days. The Troop quickly became very successful, helped by Robin’s high standards, and other staff members were roped in to assist, including Aubrey Scrace in 1956. Scrace, who had limited prior experience running a camping club at his previous school, was “completely sold on Scouting” after his first camping experience with Robin at Chelsham.

In those days, travel to camp was either by parental transport or by trek cart. While at Cambridge, Robin had made several contacts, one of whom invited him to write anonymously for the national magazine for younger members, The Scout. In later years, members of his own Troop noticed articles describing activities they themselves had done and discovered Robin was the author!

In 1956, the Troop decided to hold every third annual Summer Camp abroad—a rare practice at the time. In 1965, a double-decker bus was purchased, enabling the transportation of all Scouts and equipment to camp, and also for trips to theatre and concerts. I remember it being parked behind the Dining Hall and pottery workshop at Broadfield—both long gone. Parents worked hard to raise funds for these ventures.

Music played a significant role in the Troop, whether through handbell ringing, concerts, or performances of Gilbert and Sullivan works, as well as campfire singing. Scouting standards were high, especially in camping and other skills, which was evident when the Troop competed in local District competitions. Local camps, called “twig camps” after the adult Wood Badge training, were intense and led by Robin’s well-trained Patrol Leaders, usually aged 16 or 17, long before the 1970s revamp.

Water activities were a mainstay: sailing and canoeing featured prominently in summer camps, often in the Lake District, on the Wye and the Dart, but also as far afield as North Wales, the Pyrenees, and Wiltz, where hiking and mountaineering were included. In 1969, with modernisation of the national organisation and the dropping of “Boy” from the title, uniform standards were standardised for the Scout section—teal-green shirts and mushroom-colored long trousers. To retain their blue uniform, the 16th Reigate re-registered as Sea Scouts, becoming the only Sea Scout Troop in the Reigate District.

Teaching staff came and went, but parents could always be recruited to assist. In the early 1970s, Robin found himself virtually running the very large Troop alone, until 1975, when Peter “Dennis” Wheatley joined him. Their partnership lasted until Peter’s job move in 1993.

I had no personal teaching contact with Robin until I reached the Sixth Form in 1967, when I was placed in his Maths A-Level class. Sad to say, I did not excel in the subject, though I still remember Robin acknowledging that I had reached my “ceiling” in double differentiation. Curiously, this must have rubbed off, because in my later teaching career I found myself teaching Maths to GCSE-level students who were less academically able.

I was never a Scout at the 16th, being a member of the “opposition” at the 30th Reigate, which included several Grammar School boys. As a keen young Scouter, like Robin, I attended a training course at Gilwell to earn the Wood Badge—a purely voluntary qualification at the time. My involvement as a boy and then a leader eventually led me to become a very young District Commissioner for Reigate in the early 1980s. I had already noticed Robin’s contributions to The Scout, which impressed me, and I had even submitted cartoons in my early days (I still have the rejection letter). I visited his efficient Troop room above Broadfield several times and once attended a local “twig” camp, Robin’s term for junior Wood Badge training camps. From that time, I began receiving his Newsletter, which I enjoyed for many years, along with invitations to reunions and celebrations—even after I had finished my appointment. I was always flattered to be included.

It is very sad to see something one has started and maintained for 45 years fade away. I have experienced the same situation in my later teaching career at another local school, first as Scout Leader, then Group Scout Leader, sometimes running both Cubs and Scouts alone for nearly thirty years. Recruiting new leaders was always a challenge; parents were often unavailable, and teaching staff rarely stayed long enough to take on the role. When Peter Dobson moved on, despite the support of a Headmaster, the Troop and Venture Scout Unit entered a dormant period in 1996, hoping to restart. In the end, some equipment was sold, some given to other groups in the District, and the Troop was finally wound up in 2006.

I last saw Robin at the School Golden Reunion two years before his death and was able to share a few words with him. Robin was a wonderful Scouter, setting high standards in camping, integrity, and the skills taught in Scouting. He employed a form of engineered passive leadership, allowing boys to make mistakes and learn from them. The spirit, fun, and discipline he instilled left an immense impact on his Scouts, from practical skills to a love of outdoor life and messing about in boats. He was recognised by the Scout Association with a Bar to his Medal of Merit for his service.

Robin maintained contact with past members long after retiring from the school. His newsletters were full of remembrances and current activities, many involving outdoor skills that Scouts had learned, wittingly or unwittingly, and often helping, if not actually running, Scout Troops where they lived. The newsletters and booklets, What Scouting Has Meant to Members of the 16th Reigate Scout Troop, are testimony to the enduring impact of his leadership and training.

This is Robin’s Scouting legacy.

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