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Conversation is an art. As an exercise of human skill it draws upon experience, creativity, sensitivity and empathy, all of which facilitate the sweet satisfaction which only two minds in sustainable harmony can evoke. Even several minds, attuned in similar fashion, may access this music of the spheres, but the likelihood is less because collectivism frequently induces competitiveness which is anathema to good conversation.

One would expect that within Universities, bursting with numeracy and literacy, disturbed by challenging creativity or requited by such energy from others, the elements for good conversation would abound. But that this is frequently not so can be demonstrated by questioning of any of one’s colleagues or peers as to when they last sat, slouched, sauntered or even engaged in mutually satisfying silence as a measure of the special privilege and great reward conferred by the luxury of leisurely intellectual exchange, uniquely offered within the groves of academe.

Of course, this is a generalisation. Gaze about the café area of the University Club on any morning around ten and you will see singles in self-indulgent solitude, couples in earnest converse, groups in jocular interchange or note-booked, brief-cased little knots leaning inward to the uncluttered manifest leader who is conducting and facilitating the interlude. However, none of these is engaged in that form of conversation which can only surface when the reason for the meeting is the unashamed, unhurried, unstructured and freely floating exploration and gentle exercise of inquiry, comment and response.

Certainly, within some arcane enclaves such as the honeycomb of Hackett Hall or those that strive within the glass menagerie of the Business School, there may be couples who engage in true conversational discourse and relaxed exchange. However, the stimulus and encouragement for such luxury is frequently marred by the surroundings, the setting and the seriousness of the undertakings involved. Such encounters are often conducted in staccato word-grabs garbed in the rough cloth of professionalism and totally inimical to true conversation.

It was not always thus. That veteran conversationalist E/Prof John Jory, himself steeped in the circumlocutions of classics, cricket and ancient history, clearly recalls his first day of employment at this University when he sought solace and fellow feeling in the building that served as the first University club. The edifice remains in place reflecting on its own past hospitality and its ownership by the late Dr Love. There he found himself seated next to an elderly gentleman whose amiability and approachability secured a most pleasant interlude It was only later that he learnt that this was the Vice- Chancellor – Mr Stanley Prescott, later to be regally dubbed.

In the early sixties University House opened its doors.  Ideally placed, virtually on the banks of Matilda Bay, it became quite rapidly a home from home for a motley crew of mainly male malcontents and roisterers of whom, eventually, only a small proportion were academics. Their simple needs for cakes and ale were met by the barman-manager Dave Saunders whose earthy blandishments were supplemented by a kitchen, cafeteria and, even for the élite, a dining room.

The administration of all this was for a considerable time in the refined hands of that patrician publican, scion of an aristocratic English background and former British guardsman, Charles, whose chequered career both ante and post appointment to this position is still remembered with tolerant bonhomie by all who learned of and witnessed it.

For a long period the affairs and cares of the House were nurtured by the jovial presidency of the benign Mel Sargent whose loyalty probably gave it a life span which it might not have otherwise enjoyed. The last to care for the old dear, as she sat and mouldered beneath the Norfolk Pines, was the redoubtable Cathy Tang who created an image of warmth, friendliness and intimate efficiency the passing of which many of the older members of the present palace bemoan to this very day.

The whole of the premises leaked in many ways. From the roofs of course, but in terms of the exchange of sullen complaints, secrets, nuances and ruefulness expressed by the line of leaning loungers on the bar, and occasionally from individuals in more exposed places, there was water, water everywhere. Small enclaves outside the central font of food and ale did indeed engage in exchanges of sorts. However, these rarely reached the relaxed realms of constructiveness and reflection before they became more raucous, less rational and increasingly devoid of what might be construed as an unlubricated, intellectual exercise worthy of the forum.

The Twenty Club, a somewhat self- consciously, self- promoting self-selected cadre of intellectuals seeded with younger, equally respectable firebrands, met regularly in the Townshend Room cloaking their deliberations in Chatham House rules. However, an evening which commenced with a short dissertation to be followed by round-the-table comment could barely qualify as a conversazione.

Finally things fell apart. The centre could not hold. Mere anarchy was loosed upon the campus and the old lady was consigned to becoming a mass of debris which paid its due, tribute and tithes to the massive sandstone pleasure–palace opposite as a recompense for some of the sporting ground which that mammoth had consumed. It is said that several malcontents were found among the rubble, still clasping sturdy beer glasses, their formerly bloodshot eyes closed forever.

Yet there had been a gentler side which must be remembered. Vice-Chancellors continued to use the dining room, communing with staff and listening patiently to grumbling points of view. A magnificent, massive jarrah table designed by the talented late David Foulkes-Taylor graced this dining hall and now rests on the floor of the rival institution, still revealing its sloping, solid under-belly and sturdy foot railing which comforted dignitaries consigned to long hours of University-style harangue. Weddings, wakes and Convocation meetings infused its walls with life and the sounds of the Hokey-Pokey enlivened the shuffling meanderings of the Conga.

Unfortunately the University is not a Tower of Babel. Yes, it is a place of many tongues; however, most of these speak only among themselves. The fact is that communication between disciplines of a natural and easy kind is more rare than commonplace. This is much to the detriment of mutual understanding and intellectual growth. The lion should lie down with the lamb. The scientist with the humanist. The young with the old.

There is so much enlightenment and enrichment lying untapped and unsought on this beautiful campus that books and journals are only supplementary to its available gifts.