Hell's Bells

Being retired, I no longer have any pressing need to ever set an alarm to wake me from reluctant sleep - except on a Sunday, when I rise at (to me) the unearthly hour of just before 8, to get ready for my “Sunday morning job”. By 8.30, I am driving through on blissfully traffic free roads to my first ‘job’ at The Minster in Preston. As usual, the car park is busy with various young people disgorging large pieces of musical equipment from cars – and not just drums and guitars, but also all the paraphernalia associated with any Rock Band.

It promises to be another noisy, exuberant, and joyous morning of worship and my role, with the other dedicated members of my bellringing band, is to help to kick start the proceedings with our version of ‘rocking the church’ with a spot of ringing the bells. Only we don’t have to unload our equipment – our equipment is high up in the tower, which yes, will rock, ever so slightly when we get going.

Preston Minster

As we start to ‘ring up’ the bell, sometimes, not always in the right order (and I am usually to blame), I console myself with knowing that most of the local community cannot tell the difference between some basic rounds and call changes and the more complicated stuff that we ring for them. For I am on my ‘Sunday best’ attempt and ringing to the best of my ability, because what we ring is not the issue – the fact that we ring at all is what matters. We ring for the church and for ourselves and to call out to the congregation that the service will soon be starting, even though most of us are not part of the regular congregation, partly because as soon as we end our stint at The Minster, it’s straight off to the next tower to ring for their service.

If you hear the bells ring out on a Sunday, don’t be under the illusion, as I was, that it just happens. My first introduction to bellringing was when I happened to be walking past my local church one Monday evening just as they were ending their weekly practice and I went to investigate. With some confidence as a past violinist and flautist, I joined the band the following week, and echoing the sentiments of Jack Wooley of The Archers radio series, thought “after all, how hard can it be, ringing a few bells?”

The answer is "very hard indeed.” Within the first 10 minutes, I learned that becoming competent at bellringing has nothing to do with any prior knowledge of music other than an ability to perhaps pick out the sound of one bell from the cacophony of clanging. Indeed it takes weeks and months of practice just to master the basics of controlling a bell enough to stay roughly in sequence. Patting your head, rubbing your tummy, whilst standing on one leg and whistling the national anthem backwards is child’s play compared to ringing a bell.

I acknowledge that compared to most who aspire to competence as ringers, I am an extremely slow learner, still mooching around in the slow lane, often at completely at a standstill, while other newer learners whizz by me and are well on their way to mastering the challenging stuff. For me, it has been my dogged determination that has kept me going for so long. After eight years, I am still hanging on in there, on the end of a rope, chugging along, doing my best, taking part, and finding enjoyment and personal satisfaction in mastering the basics.

I can’t think of any other pastime I have undertaken that I have pursued for so long, despite long times of no noticeable improvement before managing to ring something passably. Perhaps it is the generosity and steadfast support from my fellow, far abler ringers, who I am surprised still accepting me into their fold – and this isn’t just at my home tower, but at all the others I have been to. From a laconic “well that wasn’t too bad, was it” which is high praise indeed, to a “quiet well done” accompanied by a surprised raised eyebrow, there has been as much joy from them as from myself when things have gone well. I am just grateful that in y despondent periods. when I have wobbled and wondered what folly it is to continue to pursue the elusive dream of that perfect round of a Plain Hunt peal, they have been consistent in their encouragement.

Individual motives to ring all differ slightly, but none of us is in it purely for personal gratification. We are happy to share our passion when called on by the community and ring out the bells at weddings, funerals and the annual Remembrance Sunday which brings an added layer of work to the already pressed ringers as the bells need to be ‘muffled’ as a sign of respect.

a set of muffles

‘Muffles’ are thick hand-sized leather pads, resembling one half of a pair of castanets, and are attached with straps to a bell's clapper to reduce the volume. The effect is to deaden the bell's strike note, while retaining the hum. They are only fitted to one side of the clapper and so when the bell is struck, there is an 'echo' effect as the bell strikes are alternately loud and soft.

When the bells are fitted with muffles in this way are said to be half-muffled – and the only time when they are fully ‘muffed’ is when the reigning monarch passes away. Fitting them isn’t an easy job – as I witnessed first-hand. I had wondered why our Tower Captain, who usually comes casually but cleanly dressed, had arrived wearing clothes that looked as if they had seen better days. There was a reason – a belfry, while dry, is a dirty and dusty place where copious cobwebs new and old abound, not to mention possible pigeon poo.

Accessed by a winding narrow staircase. I had read about the theory of fitting of muffle to clapper in a text book, not actually seen it done. When my tower captain heard this, she encouraged me to go along – apart from anything she needed someone there to call for help if she had a mishap.

This should have alerted me, and it was with some apprehension that I agreed to help muffle the bells at The Minster – or at least be there. Never one to go back on my word, armed with my torch and wearing scruffy apparel, once the bell ringing practice had ended, I warily followed Jo, Bell Tower Captain up the increasingly narrowing spiral steps. I began to regret my enthusiastic signing up for this the week before, when horror of horrors – once we got to the room directly above the bellringing chamber, it was not the end of the journey. This was merely the ‘Clock room’ – the bells were housed even further up – and accessed by a narrow ladder that led up a through a hatch to the bells. Halfway up the ladder, the batteries in my torch gave out – and having tried in vain to get a foothold on the ironwork cradles surrounding the giant wheels that support that the bells, I was, in truth, relieved to leave Jo, agile as a monkey, clambering happily between, over and under the ironwork cradles to muffle the clappers. The following Tuesday, we had to again ascend the heights to remove the muffles.

As well as these regular annual reasons, there is also the ringing to mark one off national events such as Royal Weddings, funerals, and coronations. I am guessing that most of us are somewhat addicted to turning up to “make a noise” as it really doesn’t need much to encourage us to get together to ring. However, while a tower of bells ringing in a basic round, with each bell successively following the one before, with perhaps a few variations, known thrown as “Call Changes” is good for most Sundays, for more important events, something more complicated is called for. These are what are known as the ‘Methods,” individually named, such as Plain Bob, Canterbury, Cambridge, Kent, and Grandsire and a rather short one that sounds like Bisto but is actually Barstow.

Plain Hunt sequence

I started with the foundation peal of  Plain Hunt, which apart from Bisto, the shortest sequence. In any Method, each bell follows a different bell every time until they get back to the beginning. If it sounds complicated – it is, at least to a learner, like myself, who might well, after much contemplation of this diagram, sort of understand the theory. However, when trying it out in practice, the ropes mysteriously seem to move much faster than when I was just watching. Add to this the sounds of the bells start alternating and within a few pulls of the rope, I am well and truly I am lost. The well-intentioned advice to “listen for your bell and put it in the correct place” is outside the capability of my ears to sift the difference in bell sounds when I am busy just trying to look as if I know what I am doing. As for “just watch the ropes and see which is the last to move”– I can’t even manage that standing in the corner with no bell to control. If I tried doing this whilst actually ringing, I think it may well end with a completely new method being invented – which as the composer, I would have the legitimate right to name “Hells Bells.”

I like to think that most people enjoy hearing church bells ringing out, and this was confirmed after the long silencing of bells during covid was ended, when a parishioner told me that she had missed the Sunday morning ringing and it was a sign of normal life returning when the bells once again “rang so joyously out.”

It reminds me of Tennyson, who penned this poem allegedly after hearing the bells of the Abbey Church being rung on New Year's Eve. This is entirely possible, given that it is an accepted custom to ring out the old year (half-muffled for its passing) and then with the muffles removed to ring to mark the birth of the new year.

Ring out Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Some ringers believe that Tennyson was inspired by those at Hagworthingham, close to his childhood home. Any ringer can turn up at just about any tower and be welcome to join in with their practice. The trust involved is immense in tower captains taking a stranger’s words for it that they are competent to ring their bells and will not cause any damage, although they are not so foolish as to omit checking you out with a practice first. I have dropped in at a few places where no-one knows me and yet have found everyone welcoming. I always contact the tower captain first and am disappointed when some reply that they do not have enough numbers to make up a viable band on the days that I happen to be in the locality. However, I would have great trouble in adding the tower at Hagworthingham to the list that I have thus far ‘bagged’ – for the simple reason that it collapsed in the 1970s. However, the bells from the tower didn’t go to waste and were rehoused at Welbourn, near Lincoln, so I haven’t given up hope that I might one day ring one of those ‘Wild Bells.’

ringers in action

All in all, bell practice is very good way to spend ninety minutes. There is no time to dwell on any troubling things as it requires full concentration in placing our bell in the right order at the right time. It requires mental agility and this, combined with a mild cardio exercise that is well within any one’s grasp, it is no surprise that some research has shown that ringers tend to suffer less from the ravages of dementia. As we lower the bells after another satisfying practice, the bonhomie and sense of wellbeing lingers long after the bells have been silenced.

To come full circle, about six months ago, another walker happened to be passing by the same church where I was first lured by the bells. just as we were finishing up our ringing practice. As she walked down the lane, she commented “what a lovely way to spend the evening. I must tell my friends…” I suggested she do better than that and join us to “have a go,” explaining that no prior knowledge was needed and no you didn’t need to be musical. So she did… and joins the band whenever she can.

If you are nearby to a church ringing bells this Sunday – listen out for it and appreciate the people of the bell ringing world who made it happen. We are a dying breed and need more ringers and hope that reading this may encourage you to search out a tower and have a shot at it. And I may see you there…

How still the bells in steeples stand

How still the bells in steeples stand,
Till, swollen with the sky,
They leap upon their silver feet
In frantic melody!

Emily Dickinson

Thanks for reading. Comments welcomed.

Yvonne

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Court - Anyone for Tennis?

Lush, green grass, white chalk perfectly defining boundaries and I am already spellbound by the untouched Centre Court as Wimbledon 2023 is about to commence. I will make the most of this two week tournament and indulge myself as much as I can, rooted in front of our biggest television which is situated in our less comfortable room but it will do nicely. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually be there. Centre Court, Court Number 1, the outside courts, I would be in awe. The rhythmic thwack of racquet on tennis ball has a soothing, almost hypnotic feeling which began sometime in childhood with my mother, a keen player in her teens, following black and white television coverage of Wimbledon in the ‘50s and ‘60s. In my younger days I enjoyed knocking a ball around the hard courts in our Stanley Park. I was completely rubbish, even with my Chris Evert endorsed make of racquet. I’m sure the exercise did me good.

The Tennis – this grand slam being the only one I follow closely – fits in just right, between the end of the football season and the beginning of the next one. When the children were small, I used to look upon it as some ‘me’ time before the summer holidays. In my days of working full time, I would try to plan annual leave around it. Now that I’m retired, it can be a priority, as far as I can push it. And it is only a fortnight, after all.

I love the protocol and tradition that is special to Wimbledon. The All England Tennis and Croquet Club correct and proper, which puts me in mind of the bygone times I wish I had known. I adore the work of John Betjeman for the same reason,

A Subaltern’s Love Song

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

                                            Sir John Betjeman CBE   (1906 – 1984)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Handwriting - Don't Lose the Basics

 

I used to take pride in my handwriting, though these days it is limited to a shopping list or a quick note. I’ve received many compliments for my ‘beautiful handwriting’ which may have started with my interest in calligraphy.  I’ve enjoyed the privilege of doing the place cards for weddings and formal functions as my reputation grew. Over the years my style has changed and become a bit scruffy, to say the least and it’s probably down to lack of use. I can’t blame it on the lymphoedema.

Handwriting was an important lesson at school. My childhood was spent learning how to correctly form individual letters, how they sat on the line, which were tall and which were not.  We practised on specially lined paper, using a fountain pen or a dipped ink pen, after a pencil had been mastered sufficiently for the approval of the teacher. How the letters linked together into what we called ‘real writing’ followed the specific rule of the pen not leaving the paper mid-word, so a character ending below the line would need to be looped back to the line to form the next one. This was the way we were taught and we had to adhere to it. Individual style came later.

My secondary school exercise books, which I still have, show my various experiments in handwriting with some comments from teachers – ‘Do this again in blue or black ink’ (my preferred turquoise Quink was an individual step too far)  ‘This is not an art lesson. No more unnecessary flourishes’.  Eventually I settled into something like a Chancery script and quite far removed from the cursive handwriting I’d grown up with. I think I still write like that.  I used my calligraphy skills to copy a couple of my favourite sonnets which I hung on the wall in matching frames. They need re-doing with ink fit for purpose; another little job on my lockdown ‘to do’ list.

I’m helping out with some home-schooling for my eldest grandson. He’s only five and missing school, which he loves. I really feel for him. He needs his teacher, his peers and the dynamics of his classroom activities. For now he’s got Nanna’s old-fashioned teaching skills coupled with bags of patience, I hope. He is a whizz kid at maths and number work. He needs some encouragement with handwriting. Yesterday was handwriting day, just when he wanted to play. I have lessons emailed to me by my daughter for him to work on with my help. It wasn’t long before I thought I was reciting a Joyce Grenfell sketch.

‘Sit still, dear.’

‘Move to where you can see, then.’

‘Try to keep hold of your pen.’

In an effort to keep things fun, I got the easel out, chalk-board facing, plenty of chalk and words for him to sound out and write on the board. That went well, he was focused and I took a photo to send to his mum. Not much actual handwriting done, never mind. After a play-break, I found him something about dinosaurs on BBC Bitesize KS1. I think it was a science lesson. He enjoyed the interaction with that so much that he had to do it twice. He already knew how to ‘scroll and click’. Of course he did, silly me, he is Year One. We’ll return to his proper school work and do some handwriting another day. There’s no substitute for basic skills.

I wrote this poem a few years ago. Forgive me if you've heard it before. 

An Alternative Education

 

The 3Rs soon to be redundant

Computer-led kids will be abundant

With all information mega-quick

It only takes a scroll and click.

No need for any conversation

Included in their education.

 

Last year’s reception class have all gone

And taken a leap up to Year One

To drag sticky fingers on IPad screens

And work out what technology means.

Will this be their basic foundation

Instead of formal education?

 

Numeracy, or let’s call it Maths

Has rules to follow specific paths,

Beginning with learning how to count

Then adding up and sharing out.

One click away from calculation

Takes away their education.

 

When did this digital preference start?

Oh why no poetry learnt by heart?

‘Spell check’ becomes their favourite teacher

With ‘grammar check’ and added feature.

The only future expectation,

A self-taught on-line education.

 

The infants are learning to use a pen.

It’s not a skill they’ll need again

For a future spent staring on-line,

Social activity in decline

With hardly any interaction,

So they won’t need our education.

 

PMW  2015

Thanks for reading, take care and keep well. 

If you're home-schooling or trying to occupy infants, keep smiling. They love you.  Pam x

 

 

 

 

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Photo Writing Exercise

Writing poetry is a real pleasure in my life, something that I enjoy as more of a hobby than in the hope of ever completing a book. Although if that should happen in the future then it's a real bonus.  Since being a part of the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society, I have had the honour of 4 of my poems being included in their publications: "A Poets' Guide To Blackpool", "Haunted Blackpool" and 2 poems in "Pelts to Petticoats" which was written to celebrate "Vintage Poulton" for their upcoming Gala.

I left School at the age of 16 with a double "C" Grade for English (Language and Literature) and didn't further my education beyond studying for an NVQ.  My only experience with any kind of Writing Exercise came when the latter book was being compiled.  I had already written an entry for the book but wanted some feedback on it, so I attended the Poetry Workshop hosted by Vicky Ellis dedicated to this book.  It was an excellent experience to receive said feedback, but Vicky also asked us to complete the exercise attached to the workshop too.

From memory, it consisted of:

• Selecting a photo associated with Poulton-Le-Fylde from one of the books about the Town and taking in all the elements that could be seen. I chose an old black and white photo of the Thatched Tavern Pub. Write down those elements.
• Place yourself outside the viewpoint of the photo and make an imaginary situation of what you were doing on that day when the photo was taken and write it down.
• Imagine the colours that could be seen.  I had to use my imagination here. Write those down alongside what they pertain to. 
• Write down what other things those colours could also be associated with such as:  Brown Soil could also be a Brown Horse, Brown Suit etc.
• Imagine another Character that cannot be seen on the photo.  Write down who they are, what they look like, how they are dressed and what they are doing.
• What happens next after the photo has been taken?

Following these guidelines this is what I ended up with:

Thatched Tavern Photo

  

As I walk to the Churchyard to tend loved one graves

With the Sky so overcast, grey and dull

Colour is injected by a green and gold sign

Brown suits stand by the Tavern, the call of Ale such a pull.

A Photographer stands with equipment poised 

To capture this picturesque sight

Chins up, chests out, hands rested on pocket watches

Masculine dignity and pride show their might.

A girl watches on out of sight and mind

Observing her playmate standing so still

Her flaxen hair shines like the Sun's rays on the Thatch

Keen to re-join prior pastimes, such a thrill.

The Photo now taken, the people adjourn

To tend to livestock or natter over a Beer

Business back to usual behind those whitewash walls

Of The Thatched Tavern bringing merriment and cheer.

It was a very unusual approach for me to take and I must admit I struggled at first, but it opened my eyes what could be done should I ever suffer with writers block.  It would come in very handy indeed.  It not only offers an opportunity to challenge yourself by doing something you may never have tried before, but also the chance to try writing in different styles.  Give it a go.  You may just surprise yourself!

Why not have a look at the Shop tab at the top of this page?  ;-)

Thanks for reading.

P.S. Apologies to Vicky if I have inadvertently missed out any of the steps of this exercise.

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il était une fois

Following on from the fantastic workshop on Saturday (at Blackpool Library), I thought I would share one of the exercises from the session.  The aim is that by following the instructions step by step you will have, in a short time, a cracking fairytale poem of which you can be proud.  This worked really well this weekend and I was incredibly impressed with the results.  I'm excited to hear the poets performing them tomorrow.

Fairytale Poem in Seven Simple Steps

Poppy: Red Riding Hood

Scissors: Rapunzel

Bone: Hansel and Gretel

Key: Bluebeard

Sock: Emperor’s New Clothes

Beans: Jack and the Beanstalk

Pile of ash: Cinderella

Gold thread: Rumpelstiltskin

Wooden needle: Sleeping Beauty

1) Choose an object from the list above.  The corresponding character/story is the subject of your poem.  Take 5 minutes to come up with as many likenesses for that object as you can, e.g. poppy = flame, scissors = bird, bone = flute etc.

2) Write two lines of poetry, with eight syllables in each, to describe your main character in relation to the object.  Rhyming is optional.  Eg. you might have Red picking the flowers or the witch sharpening the scissors.

3) Take a scene from the story and write three examples of sensations you might encounter there, e.g. If your scene involves Sleeping Beauty encountering the wicked fairy at the spinning wheel:

A smell – e.g. fresh linen, damp forest, boiled sweets

A sound – e.g. creaking wood, birds outside, her heartbeat

A texture – e.g. coarse wool, polished wood, stone walls

A taste – e.g. metallic air, honey, blood

A sight – e.g. skeins of thread, open window, stone floor

4) Write two lines of poetry, with eight syllables in each, using the same scene from your story, and including some of the elements you’ve imagined above.

5) Stories and poems which include strong visual imagery are more likely to be retained by the reader.  Use visualisation to put yourself in the scene and make it vivid for yourself.  If you can see what you’re describing you’re more likely to be able to make it clear for the readers.

• Imagining the scene from your story, what is the strongest emotion?
• Think of an animal/element to represent that emotion
• Place that animal/element in a scene of its own
• Think of an action for that animal/element to carry out

6) Write four lines of poetry with eight syllables in each line following the pattern:

Line 1: Character and emotion

Line 2: Animal/element

Line 3: Scene/background

Line 4: Action

7) Return to the object.  Write two lines with eight syllables to describe the object again but reflecting on what’s happened in the scene, e.g. the flower might have fallen to the ground or the key be stained with blood.

You should be left with a ten line poem.  This exercise can take between 15 minutes and several hours depending on how much time you want to spend on the imaginative exercises and re-writing.  Have fun with it, play with it.  Share it.

The Dead Good Poets are meeting at 6pm at the No5 Cafe, Cedar Square, Blackpool.  It's a family friendly evening on the theme of children's poetry.  As usual, it's open mic and all are welcome to read.  We'd be delighted if you would join us.

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