As with public schools, there was a great deal about the ancient universities which had less to do with learning than with social status, with courses in geography and estate management for those of a less academic turn of mind. But the jolly raggings, debaggings and destruction of earnest students' rooms had ended with the Twenties. With the depression, the Thirties had begun, stringent and serious. And nothing could interfere with that precious freedom – a room of one's own. Cambridge rooms had double doors, and the convention was that the occupant who 'sported his oak' by locking the outer door was not at home. At last Alan could work, or think, or just be miserable – for he was far from happy – however and whenever he chose. His room could be as muddled and as untidy as he liked, so long as he made his peace with the college servants. He might be disturbed by Mrs Turing, who would scold him for the dangerous way he cooked breakfast on the gas ring. But these interruptions were very occasional, and after this first year, Alan saw his parents only on fleeting visits to Guildford. He had gained his independence, and was at last left alone.

But there were also the university lectures, which on the whole were of a high standard; the Cambridge tradition was to cover the entire mathematics course with lectures which were in effect definitive textbooks, by lecturers who were themselves world authorities. One of these was G.H. Hardy, the most distinguished British mathematician of his time, who returned in 1931 from Oxford to take up the Sadleirian Chair at Cambridge.

Alan was now at the centre of scientific life, where there were people such as Hardy and Eddington who at school had been only names. Besides himself, there were eighty-five students who thus embarked upon the mathematics degree course, or 'Tripos' as Cambridge had it, in 1931. But these fell into two distinct groups: those who would offer Schedule A, and those who would sit for Schedule B as well. The former was the standard honours degree, taken like all Cambridge degrees in two Parts, Part I after one year, and Part II two years later. The Schedule B candidates would do the same, but in the final year they would also offer for examination an additional number – up to five or six – of more advanced courses. It was a cumbersome system, which was changed the following year, the Schedule B becoming 'Part III'. But for Alan Turing's year it meant neglecting study for Part I, which was something of a historical relic, hard questions on school mathematics, and instead beginning immediately on the Part II courses, leaving the third year free to study for the advanced Schedule B papers.

The scholars and exhibitioners would be expected to offer Schedule B, and Alan par excellence was among them, one of those who could feel themselves entering another country, in which social rank, money, and politics were insignificant, and in which the greatest figures, Gauss and Newton, had both been born farm boys. David Hilbert, the towering mathematical intellect of the previous thirty years, had put it thus:9 'Mathematics knows no races … for mathematics, the whole cultural world is a single country,' by which he meant no idle platitude, for he spoke as the leader of the German delegation at the 1928 international congress. The Germans had been excluded in 1924 and many refused to attend in 1928.