Ten days ago I told the staff, students and parents in my school that I’m planning to retire next summer. It was a novel, not to say unique, experience.

Some people expressed surprise, though I had made no secret of my 60th birthday back in May: on the contrary, I celebrated it quite noisily. I should be flattered, perhaps, that people haven’t thought I’m already past it!

My announcement cannot have been a shock: I’ve completed eight years in my current headship, having managed 18 in the previous one - a long enough stint for anyone.

Some ask, “Was it a difficult decision?” Is there a compliment hidden in the question, an appreciation of my commitment to the school. Perhaps people cannot help wondering how big a wrench it will be to leave the school community after 39 years in the trade.

I don’t feel it will be a wrench. But, of course, I’ll miss the people: my amazing colleagues; occasionally infuriating, often demanding, always inspiring and humbling in their dedication to their pupils. Above all, I’ll miss the students, the very reason for going into teaching.

When you move out of the classroom into school leadership, you tear yourself away a little. Not for heads those lovely “lightbulb” moments when you suddenly see your teaching take effect: instead it’s a deferred pleasure, a great set of results (never forgetting the importance for each individual), those lovely moments of presenting in assembly some trophy, prize or other mark of distinction, congratulating not just high achievement but all the work, commitment and sheer grit that went into it.

Then there’s the banter at all levels. Teachers and children are hilarious, quick to see the funny side of things, to poke irreverent fun at school, its institutions and its people, without forgetting the respect and love they feel for them.

So why is it time to go, now? When does one decide to give up the joys, the privilege but also the indisputable burden of headship?

I don’t feel a need to get out. As I fulminate against the latest daft government initiative, I’m now resisting the temptation to say, “It won’t be my problem.” Matters of education are something for all of society, working or retired, so that’s not an acceptable view.

‘It won’t be a wrench’

Nonetheless, in every job there are dull bits - I won’t miss these: not least writing and revising my share of the endless policies that expand and multiply year on year.

Will I miss the sheer number of meetings in a week? I don’t find them burdensome: at their best, meetings with colleagues, and even those with anxious parents, involve focusing on making the future better for the young people in my charge.

No. It won’t be a wrench, but a welcome change. I do want to go while I’m still anxious to get to work. But a demanding job takes its toll, and I think perhaps one more winter will be enough. My wife and I try to go running, just a couple of miles, three times a week: notwithstanding the undoubted benefits to my health, I do find it miserable both to set out on a morning run and to return in darkness. It will be nice to see my home in daylight from Monday to Friday. That’s true for everyone: but I can now get off that particular treadmill.

We’re both fit and well, another indication that we should enjoy this good period while we can. I won’t do nothing: that’s for sure, although it’ll be good to read the newspaper in the morning, rather than in bed at night - perhaps in a coffee shop, a pleasure I’ll relish. I’ll certainly keep writing, even if I veer away in blogs and columns from education towards broader social commentary. I might even finish that novel.

In the end, the best advice about this decision came from my wise brother-in-law: “Better to go too early than too late.”

When I broke the news to my senior team, I breezily passed on that aphorism. There was a pause: then one of my colleagues replied (mischievously, I hope): “Who said anything about too early?”

Dr Bernard Trafford is headteacher of Royal Grammar School, Newcastle upon Tyne, and a former chairman of the HMC. The views expressed here are personal. He tweets as @bernardtrafford

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