I was first invited to Camp around 1950. We were in old army tents at Bothampstead Farm, on the edge of Hampstead Norreys, near Newbury, where Bernard Robinson had held his two summer Camps for quite a few years. Music was in a barn, plus a few ancillary buildings campers had built over time. I was a keen amateur singer and violinist, and immediately fell under the spell of making music all day long at quite a high level. Raymond Leppard, Norman Del Mar, Colin Davis, and the composer John Gardner were influential conductors at this time, with the scientist/musician Bernard doing his part.

I managed to attend during leave from National Service in the RAF during 1952 and 3. Once at Cambridge I was a passionate devotee of both summer Camps, and the winter Reunion in London. I played in the orchestra, sang in the choir, played chamber music, sang solo, and even began to conduct myself. My debut was the last act of Falstaff. These intense encounters were a key part of my musical education, particularly the interaction with top amateur, and young professional, players. I remember for instance performing Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet with Colin Davis as the clarinettist. During the winters Bernard  would also summon one to Working Parties at Bothampstead, helping with building projects of all kinds.

By 1957 I wanted to organise a mini Camp of my own. Three of us gathered singers, players, cooks and bottle washers, to spend Easter weekend rehearsing and playing Mozart’s Cosi fan Tutte. It was fun, but  bitter cold, (as we might have expected). There were still trains in the middle of the countryside in those days, and I have a vivid memory of waiting to pick people up  in my old Austen 10 late on the first evening, and hearing the little steam train puffing nearer with my musicians on board…

We had another (cold) Magic Flute the following Easter. Humphrey Burton sang Sarastro I recall.

In 1966 Bernard and his second wife Elizabeth moved the Camps to Piggotts Farm near High Wycombe. Beautiful barns, house, and cottages around a green quadrangle, had all once belonged to the sculptor Eric Gill and his tribe of families. By then I was a professional conductor, but glad to keep gaining experience with good amateurs. I remember taking two days away from Piggotts to conduct a Prom, and then nipping back to the real, eccentric, world of Camp. The place is now busy year round, with weekends devoted to music, dance, drama, and art. A remarkable enterprise.