‘Dear Mummy and Daddy,’ reads the looping blue handwriting on Snoopy writing paper. ‘I am getting along very well. But I am still crying slightly because I am missing you very much.’ That letter was written 35 years ago by my husband, Guy, then aged eight. It was two weeks into his first term at boarding school and he was desperately homesick, but obviously trying to be brave. His mother showed us the letter a couple of weeks ago, as we were discussing where to send our own children, Will, 11, and Alice, nine, when they move to senior school. Scroll down for video . Annabel Venning has been discussing with husband Guy whether or not to send their children Alice, nine, and Will, 11 to boarding school . As I read it, my heart broke for that homesick little boy, far from home aged only eight. When Guy told me that he used to cry for three days at the beginning of every term, after every weekend visit and half-term, I felt even sadder. Then I remembered that, when I went off to board at the same age, I would struggle not to cry as I said goodbye to my parents at train stations or airport departure gates (my father was in the Army, so lived abroad for much of my childhood). Only years later did my mother tell me that once I had gone through the departure gate, she would start sobbing. On the plane, I would weep in my seat as kindly stewardesses doled out tissues. Even so, when we had our children, Guy and I assumed that they would follow in our footsteps to boarding school. Guy, aged eight, and the letter he sent to his parents about being upset at boarding school  which nearly broke Annabel's heart . For when we look back at our schooldays and reminisce with old friends, it’s never those wretched, tear-stained stories we remember. It’s the pillow fights in the dormitories; the daring raids on the Mars Bar stores in the headmaster’s study; friends available to play at all times; glorious grounds to roam; building log cabins; growing vegetables in our own allotments; playing hide and seek; and climbing ancient trees. We thrived at prep school. After those emotional goodbyes, I smothered thoughts of home and never once shed a tear after walking through the big wooden door of the magnificent Jacobean mansion that housed my school in Dorset. There were animals everywhere: the teachers’ dogs followed them into the classroom (and sometimes made rather inappropriate advances on our legs as we stood in line). Ponies grazed in the fields and we could ride them before breakfast in the summer. A pet sheep wandered around the gardens. True, there weren’t as many midnight feasts as I’d been led to expect from my Enid Blyton books, but I was happy, as my own chirpy letters home testified (they were read by a teacher before being sent, so we couldn’t moan to our parents about the grey, gristly meat we were fed or the scary matron who chased us into bed with a riding crop). Nowadays, boarding school pupils can phone or email home whenever they like. The schools are more luxurious, less eccentric places than they were 30 years ago. I doubt many children have to wear a dressing gown and slippers in bed to keep warm as I did in the draughty dorm. Nor, I imagine, are children punished, as I was for talking after lights out, by being sent to sit in the dark on the ‘haunted’ staircase. But when our children neared the age at which we had been sent away, we baulked at the idea — and not just because of the eye-watering fees. They just seemed far too young. I asked the headmaster of one prep school, where boarding is compulsory from the age of 11, what happened if a child was homesick; could they go home? Annabel as a child. She says she thrived at boarding school, smothering thoughts of home after walking through the school doors . ‘We find it’s only the mothers who cry,’ he said, as though mothers’ feelings were of little consequence and every child loved boarding. But, of course, that’s not the case. I know of several happy boarders, but I also know mothers who have to peel their weeping children off them every time they return to school and who regularly receive distraught texts and phone calls begging to come home. Surely that must have a long-term impact? One of my best friends at prep school used to cry for her parents every night. She’s still too upset at the memory to talk about it. Another remembers feeling utterly bewildered as to why she couldn’t go home at night. ‘I felt lost for four years,’ she says. What if one of our children was homesick? The idea of them crying for us, even if only for a few nights, as in Guy’s case, is unbearable. And while modern boarding staff are probably more sympathetic than in our day, they cannot love our children for us. Annabel says her education was first class but she finds herself wincing at the thought of her children boarding . Moreover, we are not under the same pressures our parents faced — we work from home. So we opted instead for the excellent local primary school and, when that didn’t work out for our son, moved him to a lovely prep school where he is a day boy. Will has tried boarding for the occasional night, but once when we went away and he had to board for four nights, he told me: ‘It’s OK for a night or two, but after that I really missed you. It’s weird being without your parents at night.’ He’s right. There is nothing natural about young children living away from home. Nowadays, few children board full-time at eight as we did. Even so, I’m amazed at how many people send off their children at 11 — despite average fees of £30,000 a year. Indeed, despite concerns raised by psychiatrists that boarding is damaging for young children, it is increasingly popular — boarding numbers were up by 1 per cent last year and there are a growing number of state boarding schools. Now that we are trying to choose senior schools for our two, we are facing the dilemma afresh. We went to traditional public schools at 13, where we continued to board. The education was first class, we did well academically and went on to good universities. And yet I find myself wincing at the thought of my children doing the same. Even if they can flexi-board or weekly board, I hate the idea that they will do so much of their growing up without me. Recently, I’ve met several people (mostly men in their 40s) who said: ‘I’ve got nothing in common with my parents because I didn’t grow up with them — I went to boarding school.’ Some attribute relationship problems or mental breakdowns to being deprived of parental support during the crucial teenage years. I don’t feel like that. I am close to my parents and never felt abandoned — after all, they had little choice. And yet, even though I made lasting friendships at school, there were times I would have dearly loved to go home and have a hug from the people who cared the most — my mum and dad. The teenage years are tough. Your body changes, friendships are more intense but less secure, and everyone fights for their place in the pecking order. Girls, particularly, can be cliquey and mean. It’s the same at any school, but if you can’t get away for a few hours, it can feel relentless. We adapted by ‘fitting in’, becoming clones of each other, dressing, talking and flicking our hair the same way. Conscious as I am that I was incredibly lucky to have had such a good education, I wonder if being part of ‘normal’ life might be healthier than living, seven days a week, in a community where contact with the outside world is minimal. Modern boarding schools have incredible facilities (as well they might at £10,000 a term) and offer endless activities at weekends. But sometimes all a teenage girl wants to do on a Saturday afternoon is take the bus into town to go to Topshop with her friends. I’d like my children to have a great education and a normal life. Being a day pupil, whether at private or state school, is the best guarantee of that, I’m sure. Perhaps I am being naive. Maybe when our children become grunting, texting, grumpy teenagers and we are fed up with being a taxi service, we will be remortgaging the house and digging out boarding school prospectuses. But for now, I am glad they can confide in me, not their teddy bear, and that every night I get to kiss their foreheads as they sleep — for a few more years at least.
Annabel says her education was first class but she finds herself wincing at the thought of her children boarding .
The letter that Guy, aged eight, had sent to his parents about being upset at boarding school nearly broke Annabel's heart .
Some attribute relationship problems or mental breakdowns to being deprived of parental support during the crucial teenage years .
Guy found it hard to settle in and they are debating whether or not to send their children Alice, nine, and Will, 11 to boarding school .
Expensive boarding schools are now more luxurious, less eccentric places .
‘Dear Mummy and Daddy,’ reads the looping blue handwriting on Snoopy writing paper. ‘I am getting along very well. But I am still crying slightly because I am missing you very much.’ That letter was written 35 years ago by my husband, Guy, then aged eight. It was two weeks into his first term at boarding school and he was desperately homesick, but obviously trying to be brave. His mother showed us the letter a couple of weeks ago, as we were discussing where to send our own children, Will, 11, and Alice, nine, when they move to senior school. Scroll down for video . Annabel Venning has been discussing with husband Guy whether or not to send their children Alice, nine, and Will, 11 to boarding school . As I read it, my heart broke for that homesick little boy, far from home aged only eight. When Guy told me that he used to cry for three days at the beginning of every term, after every weekend visit and half-term, I felt even sadder. Then I remembered that, when I went off to board at the same age, I would struggle not to cry as I said goodbye to my parents at train stations or airport departure gates (my father was in the Army, so lived abroad for much of my childhood). Only years later did my mother tell me that once I had gone through the departure gate, she would start sobbing. On the plane, I would weep in my seat as kindly stewardesses doled out tissues. Even so, when we had our children, Guy and I assumed that they would follow in our footsteps to boarding school. Guy, aged eight, and the letter he sent to his parents about being upset at boarding school  which nearly broke Annabel's heart . For when we look back at our schooldays and reminisce with old friends, it’s never those wretched, tear-stained stories we remember. It’s the pillow fights in the dormitories; the daring raids on the Mars Bar stores in the headmaster’s study; friends available to play at all times; glorious grounds to roam; building log cabins; growing vegetables in our own allotments; playing hide and seek; and climbing ancient trees. We thrived at prep school. After those emotional goodbyes, I smothered thoughts of home and never once shed a tear after walking through the big wooden door of the magnificent Jacobean mansion that housed my school in Dorset. There were animals everywhere: the teachers’ dogs followed them into the classroom (and sometimes made rather inappropriate advances on our legs as we stood in line). Ponies grazed in the fields and we could ride them before breakfast in the summer. A pet sheep wandered around the gardens. True, there weren’t as many midnight feasts as I’d been led to expect from my Enid Blyton books, but I was happy, as my own chirpy letters home testified (they were read by a teacher before being sent, so we couldn’t moan to our parents about the grey, gristly meat we were fed or the scary matron who chased us into bed with a riding crop). Nowadays, boarding school pupils can phone or email home whenever they like. The schools are more luxurious, less eccentric places than they were 30 years ago. I doubt many children have to wear a dressing gown and slippers in bed to keep warm as I did in the draughty dorm. Nor, I imagine, are children punished, as I was for talking after lights out, by being sent to sit in the dark on the ‘haunted’ staircase. But when our children neared the age at which we had been sent away, we baulked at the idea — and not just because of the eye-watering fees. They just seemed far too young. I asked the headmaster of one prep school, where boarding is compulsory from the age of 11, what happened if a child was homesick; could they go home? Annabel as a child. She says she thrived at boarding school, smothering thoughts of home after walking through the school doors . ‘We find it’s only the mothers who cry,’ he said, as though mothers’ feelings were of little consequence and every child loved boarding. But, of course, that’s not the case. I know of several happy boarders, but I also know mothers who have to peel their weeping children off them every time they return to school and who regularly receive distraught texts and phone calls begging to come home. Surely that must have a long-term impact? One of my best friends at prep school used to cry for her parents every night. She’s still too upset at the memory to talk about it. Another remembers feeling utterly bewildered as to why she couldn’t go home at night. ‘I felt lost for four years,’ she says. What if one of our children was homesick? The idea of them crying for us, even if only for a few nights, as in Guy’s case, is unbearable. And while modern boarding staff are probably more sympathetic than in our day, they cannot love our children for us. Annabel says her education was first class but she finds herself wincing at the thought of her children boarding . Moreover, we are not under the same pressures our parents faced — we work from home. So we opted instead for the excellent local primary school and, when that didn’t work out for our son, moved him to a lovely prep school where he is a day boy. Will has tried boarding for the occasional night, but once when we went away and he had to board for four nights, he told me: ‘It’s OK for a night or two, but after that I really missed you. It’s weird being without your parents at night.’ He’s right. There is nothing natural about young children living away from home. Nowadays, few children board full-time at eight as we did. Even so, I’m amazed at how many people send off their children at 11 — despite average fees of £30,000 a year. Indeed, despite concerns raised by psychiatrists that boarding is damaging for young children, it is increasingly popular — boarding numbers were up by 1 per cent last year and there are a growing number of state boarding schools. Now that we are trying to choose senior schools for our two, we are facing the dilemma afresh. We went to traditional public schools at 13, where we continued to board. The education was first class, we did well academically and went on to good universities. And yet I find myself wincing at the thought of my children doing the same. Even if they can flexi-board or weekly board, I hate the idea that they will do so much of their growing up without me. Recently, I’ve met several people (mostly men in their 40s) who said: ‘I’ve got nothing in common with my parents because I didn’t grow up with them — I went to boarding school.’ Some attribute relationship problems or mental breakdowns to being deprived of parental support during the crucial teenage years. I don’t feel like that. I am close to my parents and never felt abandoned — after all, they had little choice. And yet, even though I made lasting friendships at school, there were times I would have dearly loved to go home and have a hug from the people who cared the most — my mum and dad. The teenage years are tough. Your body changes, friendships are more intense but less secure, and everyone fights for their place in the pecking order. Girls, particularly, can be cliquey and mean. It’s the same at any school, but if you can’t get away for a few hours, it can feel relentless. We adapted by ‘fitting in’, becoming clones of each other, dressing, talking and flicking our hair the same way. Conscious as I am that I was incredibly lucky to have had such a good education, I wonder if being part of ‘normal’ life might be healthier than living, seven days a week, in a community where contact with the outside world is minimal. Modern boarding schools have incredible facilities (as well they might at £10,000 a term) and offer endless activities at weekends. But sometimes all a teenage girl wants to do on a Saturday afternoon is take the bus into town to go to Topshop with her friends. I’d like my children to have a great education and a normal life. Being a day pupil, whether at private or state school, is the best guarantee of that, I’m sure. Perhaps I am being naive. Maybe when our children become grunting, texting, grumpy teenagers and we are fed up with being a taxi service, we will be remortgaging the house and digging out boarding school prospectuses. But for now, I am glad they can confide in me, not their teddy bear, and that every night I get to kiss their foreheads as they sleep — for a few more years at least.
husband Guy whether or not to send their children Alice, nine, and Will, 11 to boarding school . As to boarding school. Guy, aged eight, and the letter he sent to his parents about being upset at boarding school  which nearly broke Annabel's more luxurious, less eccentric places than they children for us. Annabel says her education was first class but she finds herself wincing at the thought of her children boarding . Moreover, we school.’ Some attribute relationship problems or mental breakdowns to being deprived of parental support during the crucial teenage years. I don’t