ABSTRACT
In October 1945, war service completed, I packed my few possessions into an ancient Morris motor car that I had bought from Margaret Sawyer on her departure from our community at Woughton-on-the-Green and drove the fifty-odd miles to Cambridge to resume my career as an undergraduate at King's. In many ways it was like a joyful homecoming. There was the place itself, which I knew and loved so well. There were the people who had stayed there through the war years and kept things going, including most of those who had taught me and played with me and generally treated me like a grown-up and an equal when I was still only a raw schoolboy. And there were a good many of the friends of my own age who, like me, had been away and were now returning to finish their studies. As I drove over the hill from St. Neots and recognised the pinnacles of Henry VI's great chapel sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, I felt all the same excitement and expectation as Wordsworth riding in by the same route a century and a half before. And in most respects I was not disappointed.
