The Ringing Weekend

The accommodation this weekend came as a distinct contrast to the Travelodge where I happened to fetch up on Tuesday night last week.  We have to acknowledge, of course, that they are aimed at a different clientele and each probably meets its own aims with the same efficiency.  I had no real compaints with either.

The organisers of our ringing weekend are faced with one overarching problem, that of finding an affordable establishment that is big enough to accommodate 12 to 20 guests, and either will provide both breakfast and an evening meal, or is sufficiently close to a pub which can offer one or both of these requirements - and even more importantly - makes a convenient base for visiting a suitable number of churches that have ringable bells in good order.

In recent years we have set our sights on the Best Western chain, and this weekend we aimed for their hotel at Blunsdon, just outside Swindon.  It seems that this was the best sector of the country for weather; their snow had already arrived by Saturday morning, providing a picturesque if unseasonal backdrop, and we missed the substantial falls at home during our absence.  The only adverse effect of the weather was that one of our party, who is elderly and not very mobile, decided not to venture out in the morning, for fear of slipping on a slushy churchyard path.  Her husband delighted to return to the hotel to fetch her for lunch, however, and she joined in the rest of the day's activities. 


The hotel drive in the snow

St. Mary, Kempsford ceiling

Perhaps one of the most beautiful sights of the morning was the magnificent crossing ceiling in St. Mary's church, Kempsford, under which we had to pass before we could climb to the ringing chamber which is above it.  Lunch was taken at the Riverside Inn by the Thames at Lechlade, before going just up the street to ring at the church of St Lawrence there.



There is always a good welcome in the ringing fraternity, and during our time at Lechlade the door of the ringing chamber opened to admit three ladies who had heard the bells and, being ringers themselves, had decided to investigate.  On learning that we were simply visitors and not there to ring for a wedding or to attempt a significant ringing achievement like a peal or quarter peal, they asked if we would mind them joining us.  We didn't of course, and our augmented band rang a couple of touches of slightly higher quality with their help before we each went our separate ways.

St Leonard, Broad Blunsdon

The first of the two churches at which we rang this morning was St Leonard, Broad Blunsdon, just up the road from the hotel, where the local band were away and our request to ring had been warmly welcomed.  It was lovely to see the church so colourful and feel its warmth as the local congregation assembled for their celebration on Palm Sunday.  Our ringing there included what we agreed was one of the best pieces of ringing of the whole weekend.  The quality and enjoyment of ringing depends on several factors: the weight of the bells, their state of maintenance, the competence of the ringers and so on.  Today on this very light ring of eight bells (tenor 5cwt, 1 qtr, 15 lbs, or about 274Kg), we rang a simple piece in a method called 'Grandsire Triples', which, in the estimation of one ringer present, equalled something in which he had taken part at Canterbury Cathedral twenty years ago, and which had stuck in his mind as particularly pleasant.

We then moved on to what was probably the worst experience of the weekend.  The five bells at St John the Baptist, Lattan, although not particularly heavy, are mounted on plain bearings (whereas most rings these days are on ball bearings ... compare it to a car with or without power steering), and are not regularly rung, although they had been recently maintained.  It is hard to appreciate that the beautiful ringing of only an hour previously could be followed - by members of the same band - by such an awkward and disjointed performance.  Some of us simply couldn't match the work required to keep the bell going properly!  If nothing else, it's part of going on tours like this to other places, to meet the challenge of other bells, the difficulties presented by other installations and, as a result, to improve our own techniques and achievements when we get home.

By lunchtime today, therefore, the party had broken up.  Some were going on to visit family or friends who happen to live nearby, and others are now at home in the bosom of their families.  For my part, I'm sorting out the aftermath of the weekend (including the writing of this blog) and looking forward (or not, in the face of this nasty wintry white stuff) to another week on the road.

My Cup Runneth Over

Last week I hinted - without second sight, I have to say - that this week might be better.  It began with a memory blank-out.  As I left the usual Monday morning breakfast, I explained to my friends that there are, effectively, three 'shifts' to our team, which change from day to day according to the work.  One is those who have been allocated work the night before and at the start of the day are already out on the road; the second is those who had returned the previous day but had not been given a job for the next; and the third is those who were out late the previous evening and now had to ring in or attend the office to be added to the list for the new day.  It was to this third shift that I belonged on Monday, I said.

Not so.  I had forgotten that the job that kept me out until 6.45 on Friday was classed as a local or 'back-end' job, and I was still on the list since Friday afternoon.  This became apparent when, at 7.30, I had scarcely taken my coat off, let alone made coffee and put the computer on, when the weekend controller called to send me to Hitchin to collect something for Bristol, and then call the office.  I did as I was bid, and returned home where I made my sandwiches, and generally got the working week under way.  Then, since nothing else had manifested itself, off to the grand city of the west, where I delivered just round the corner from Ashton Gate, the home of Bristol City FC.

Some years ago now, I discovered - quite by accident, since I was looking for somewhere to park while I examined the charity shop around the corner - a nice little barber's shop in Bristol's outer suburbs and, if I'm ever there when in need of a trim, I go there in preference to the one near home that is otherwise my local.  It's cheaper, and the service is of that old-fashioned, personal kind.  It may not be applicable now, of course, but one can almost imagine, as the brush is run across the shoulders (that does still happen there!) the half-whispered enquiry, 'something for the weekend, sir?'

So, freshly groomed, I set off for home.  As I travelled quite cheerfully around the M25, a cautious controller called me.  "I don't know if you'd be interested in this, Brian ..."  It's an opening that could have been guaranteed - and might indeed be used for the purpose - to prompt a 'yes' response.  The offer was a delivery on Tuesday, between 10.0 and 12.00 so no desperate pressure, in Glasgow, and an accompanying but totally separate collection in Edinburgh on Wednesday morning.  It would mean a stopover on the Tuesday night, of course.  It was like a mini-holiday, and in some ways was more exciting than I expect this weekend to be.

I collected the goods for Glasgow, and packaging materials for the collection, and came home.  A couple of hours later, with the normal weekly admin successfully passed onto and off the desk, I set off for the north, only a little apprehensive of the weather.  After a meal near Stamford (accompanied by East Enders on the TV), I was able to drive almost non-stop to Carlisle, where the carpark at the truck-stop provided a convenient venue for sleep.  I slept better than expected, had breakfast there, and arrived at my destination - a warehouse on Glasgow International Airport - at 9.35.  Staff were present, my cargo recognised, and I was away before the opening of the designated window.  I parked nearby and called my contact for the next day's collection to see what time his goods would be ready.  Although there was no specially good news, such as 'well, they're actually ready now', it was good to make contact, and I then knew that it would be no good arriving before 10.30 the next morning.

The Travelodge that I had booked would be accessable by 3.0pm, so I spent the morning sightseeing.  A gentle drive up to Loch Lomond's tourist centre proved worthwhile, and I got some interesting if not technically expert photos, including a second-best view of the magnificent Erskine Bridge over the Clyde.  I arrived about 2.30, and after a chat with the receptionist, who told me of his erstwhile career as a courier, I was able to settle myself in the room.  The snow had thus far confined itself to mere flurries, although there was lots of it to be seen by the roadside, and the worst of all was actually in the hotel car-park.  The following morning was tranquility itself, for I could sit unhindered and read or attend to some work on the laptop while I waited for the magic hour to creep up when I ought to leave to cross the city for my collection.

This too, went smoothly, apart from the need to take a circuitous route because of road works in the city centre, and by 11.30 I was debating whether to return via the east coast, or back down the M74.  I'd just reached the end of the City Bypass, the point of decision, when the office rang.  After the usual pleasantries and the hope confirmed that I had by then collected the goods in Edinburgh, I was offered a pick-up of some exhibition equipment near Hexham, supposedly ready at 4.0pm.  I explained that it would take a couple of hours to get there, and that, having found the place I would enquire when they would actually be ready.  Past experience had told me that these events usually finish well before the nominated time.  I arrived just after 2.0, and found the boxes neatly sealed and labelled for collection, sitting behind the reception desk.  By 2.15 I was once more on the way home.

Yesterday, therefore saw the delivery of these two consignments that I'd collected, one in Harpenden, and the other in Harlesden, before a self-contained job on the way back home, and the day was rounded off with a hospital transfer, and another event collection.  This was in the middle of Cambridge, a place beset by pedestrian areas.  Eventually I was away too late for delivery yesterday, so my working week just tipped over to the fifth day, as I took these items to our customer in Stevenage this morning, before my plans and preparations for the ringing weekend ... which is about to get under way!

Where does Work end?

There are, I believe, many things in nature that perform in the way this week has done.  It staggered along for a couple of days, well below par, then lurched energetically as if regaining its prowess ... and then collapsed completely.  Even when resuscitated, it still couldn't manage complete normality.  If that sounds a rather dismal summary, you may prefer to wait for the follow-up next week, which will undoubtedly be better.  However, for those faithfully interested in the detail ...

Monday started quite optimistically, with a print delivery in Aylesbury that had been counted as a back-end, or local, job.  Then after a short wait, I was sent to collect in Stevenage for Stamford.  Unfortunately, this didn't follow the pattern of a Stamford job a few weeks ago that became transmogrified into Motherwell.  I was back in time for bell ringing practice, and had collected an envelope from a firm opposite my home to be delivered to Pinewood Studios in the morning.  Later on Tuesday I took some small machines from a firm in Stevenage for exchange at two places in Cambridge.  One was in a special box on wheels, for a university building in a quiet side street, and  the disabled access from the street made it a doddle.  The other, sadly, was just boxed, and needed to be carried to the heart of the hospital - no mean feat for an asthmatic - and needed a number of rests!

So ended the first two days, having generated between them little more than one day's income.  By contrast Wednesday started well, and got better, with a concatenation of three jobs.  The first was a delivery in Crawley, from which I went on to a collection in Ashford.  With the bad weather, this involved a diversion off the motorway because of Operation Stack.  I'd never seen this in action before, and the sight is quite amazing.  It's hard to imagine where all those lorries are going - and equally the frustration that must build up in the drivers who are unable to proceed, whether to make their delivery or to get home if they've already delivered in Britain.  While I was still on the M20, the office called to ask me to re-route my return to make another collection in Hadlow, just outside Tonbridge.  This proved to be one of those 'SatNav got it wrong' moments, which I just missed avoiding.

I could see that I was being turned off the road to the right, and could also see clearly a right-turn lane in front of me.  Not unnaturally, I put the two together, and turned in; as I did so, I noticed that on the SatNav screen the vehicle icon had made a sharper turning about 200 yards earlier.  With my attention then diverted to the correcting manoeuvre, it wasn't until I'd made a three-point turn and pulled out onto the main road, that I noticed my destination by the side of the road I was then leaving.  I followed SatNav's erroneous instruction, and entered a narrow lane between two snow-laden hedges.  Eventually I was able to turn around again, retrace my steps and make my collection.

On Thursday, nothing happpened.  Well, this isn't strictly true, of course, and about 2.0 pm I broke off from the family history project I'd been working on all day and called the office to see if I'd 'fallen off the radar'.  I was assured that it was simply a very quiet day, and a couple of hours later came a return call to instruct a collection in Leigh-on-Sea the next morning.  This is the sort of job I like, because, with the overnight warning, I can plan at leisure what time I'll need to leave, therefore what time I'll have to get up to avoid being in a rush, and where will be the best place to stop for breakfast.  This particular job involved a delivery in Ware, to a converted warehouse that I'd had great difficulty in locating the first time I'd been there a few months ago.  This time I turned boldly into the lane, holding up the traffic in the High Street as I adjusted my angle of approach to enter the narrow archway.

The records in the office had not been updated to show that I was doing this job, and the controller called me just as I was entering the town.  The conversation that ensued was a real-life copy of a stage sketch.  "Where are you, Brian?" "Ware." "Yes, where are you?" "Ware!" "Where?" "I'm in Ware!" "Oh, Ware.  I didn't realise you'd got that job - OK."  Soon after I'd got back, Ware from? <sorry - it becomes whering, no, Ware...  no, wearing after a while!>  I was sent off to Corby with some display materials to be finished at a factory there, and the day was rounded off by a job that was collected in Luton for a store on a retail park in Peterborough.  I just got there before they closed at 5.15, where I learned that, on two previous attempts to provide them with these goods, they had arrived broken, and I suddenly remembered the same cautious welcome somewhere the last time I'd done a job for this particular customer.  Maybe one day they'll learn that if they want a safe and secure delivery they must engage a professional courier, and not trust the cheap nationwide volume carriers! (end of promotional interlude).

My comparatively early return on Friday evening meant that the weekend's chores were soon in advance of schedule, and I could apply my attentions once more to the project that has been ongoing for some months now, attempting to separate a Suffolk village's confusing web of large families with the same name, but no obvious connection otherwise. 

Perhaps the best part of the working week has been this morning, Sunday.  During my 'day off' on Thursday, a friend asked if I'd be willing to be interviewed in church today on the subject of prayer in relation to my work.  Having agreed to do this, my thoughts drifted to that topic over the last couple of days, and by this morning I'd got fairly clear in my mind what I was going to say.  Instead, her questions were more specific, and led down a route that neither of us had prepared, the outcome of which was the revelation that I had on one occasion entered behind the hallowed black door of no. 10 Downing Street, before she returned once again to the role of prayer.

While I have no actual regrets about the way this week has turned out, it would be nice if next week is a little more normal, if for no other reason than at the end of it comes the annual bellringing 'away weekend', news of which will appear here sometime, with pictures if possible.

A Day in the Life ...

Statistically, this has been a good week: fifteen jobs, few of which have been local ones.  It involved three early mornings, with deliveries on Monday and Friday at start of business in King's Lynn, and on Tuesday at 8.0 in Syston, Leics.  Wednesday found me taking two jobs to the south coast, a surgical table to a private hospital near Portsmouth, and then some point-of-sale materials to a major clothing store about to open a branch in Bournemouth.  Thursday's main task, two deliveries in Reading, was followed by a hospital transfer from Stevenage to Cambridge.

With neither great excitement nor any concerns about activity levels to report, I thought I would focus my article this week on the social side of the job.  I have often commented that this isn't the ideal occupation for a married man, both from the point of view of the unpredictable hours that the work demands, and also as regards the earnings, which wouldn't finance the running of a family household without a considerable contribution from wife or partner.  Quite apart from this is the loneliness factor.  Not only is there the isolation in the cab whilst driving, but also a severe limit on the amount of social contact during the course of the day.

I usually begin my day with a 'quiet time', a spell in my armchair with a cup of tea while I follow a course of Bible reading, reflect upon the activities of one of a number of missionary or caring charities, and commend to God the day before me.  Something prompted my thoughts yesterday morning in the direction of the limited encounters that my work allows with other people.  I think I have mentioned before that, since the relocation of the office a year or so ago, I'm now working from home; this does allow me much more time to devote to my family history researches, but I reckon it has at least halved the number of people I have contact with.  A quick count up in the quiet of yesterday revealed that in the previous 24 hours I had exchanged words with only eleven people; I now realise that this is far from unusual, for on Tuesday this week the total was one fewer.  Nerd-like, I shall bore you with the details.

I had collected on Monday afternoon the goods I was to take to Leicestershire.  They came from a printing firm in Hertford, and stayed in the van overnight.  I had decided that to arrive at the destination by 8.0, I should need to leave home about 6.0, which was unsociably early to have breakfast first, so I left a little earlier, and stopped for a meal at a diner on the A1.  My first contact was therefore with the lady who took my order, and the second the brief exchange with her colleague who brought the plate to my table.  I arrived at the factory only a couple of minutes after 8.0, and wondered why I'd been asked to be there so early.  There was no sign of life as I drove into the yard, just the company van parked in the corner.  I locked my van and took a walk around, whereupon I discovered that the front door was wide open - someone must be about!

Returning to the van, I found the bell-push and alerted a member of staff, who quickly unloaded the goods and signed my sheet - contact no. 3.  I was home by 11.00, switched on my computer and made a drink, thinking that the day was possibly over work-wise until perhaps the collection of a similar early delivery for the morrow.  Not so.  With my coffee left steaming on the desk to be re-heated when I should return, I was sent down to Broxbourne, where I was given a parcel to take to Liverpool.  These two locations are depots of the same international company and, in common with many such places, there is a strong security presence.  So at each place there were forms to be completed as I entered the site, in addition to exchanging words with the person giving me and receiveing the goods - bringing my day's total to seven persons.

On the way to Liverpool I decided to stop for some coffee at Derby services on the A50, a favourite watering hole, and on the way back I needed to refuel, so I pulled off the motorway at Knutsford to take advantage of lower-than-motorway prices.  I also enjoyed a pleasant exchange with the cashier there, who warned me that a new pump had been installed that day for 'supreme' diesel, and that if I didn't want to find myself paying significantly more I should avoid using this by mistake on another occasion.  By now, of course, the day was moving on, and my stomach was reminding me that there was nothing in the van to eat, so I stopped at the Rugby truckstop for a meal on the way home, where the brief exchanges with chap who took my order - and later served the meal - scored my tenth interlocution of the day.

So, do I feel deprived by this apparent loneliness?  Not really, because I tend to be quite a self-sufficient sort anyway; but I am aware of the effect it can have on me, and on others who follow the same pattern of life.  On occasions, I find I have to make a distinct effort to join in the sort of 'normal' conversations that many of my acquaintances take for granted.  As a result, no doubt I come across as rather aloof or 'stand-offish', until a closer relationship has been - necessarily slowly - established.

It's very definitely a 'square-hole' job, suited only to life's self-confessed 'square-pegs!'