Floating ... o'er Vales and Hills, I saw ...

Yesterday's annual spring outing of our bellringers was perhaps the best day of the past week.  It's been another in the sequence of uninspiring weeks that have dogged this record recently.  It certainly felt uninspiring when, by Thursday evening, my estimate for the week to date had just struggled past the three-day marker.  On Friday, forewarned by notices at each end, the road which is the only access to my Close, was closed for resurfacing.  With this in mind, I mentioned to the office on Thursday that my ideal situation for the next day would be 'a long job, early: so I can profitably stay away all day.'  With the recent history, I confess that I felt less than hopeful.

To be fair, I was offered what was described as the best of a bad job: a pick-up in Biggleswade at 8.30, for Coventry.  Out early, I relaxed in the sunshine at a local BP station before approaching the collection point on time.  Just as I reached the end of the M45, I was asked to call in once I was empty, which would be within the next half-hour.  I did so, and was sent to Knowsley, just north of Liverpool, where I collected goods for delivery in Rotherham, Luton and Broxbourne.  I was instructed to deliver those in Rotherham, and then take the others to the depot, for others to deliver on Monday morning.  The upshot of this was that, I later discovered, Friday's activity represented 37% of what, from such poor beginnings, had ended up as good a week as the last few.  Weather-wise, Friday's journey was all-embracing, from bright - almost dazzling - sunshine to the novel experience of driving through the rainbow towards the summit of England's motorways along the M62.

Whatever their commercial context, one of the delights of driving just now is the daffodils.  Everywhere it's possible, it seems, they push their chirpy faces around every corner.  They have a treasured place in memory for me as, I believe, for most people.  When I see them, I think of schooldays; trying to learn that poem by Wordsworth, sitting at the front of the church, decorated with daffodils at Easter-time; hearing about Mary Magdalene by the empty tomb, and imagining daffodils in that garden, too.  And so to the outing yesterday.  I'd been the first to arrive at one church, and while waiting for the others to turn up, I'd taken a picture of the church.  As I did so, I spotted the daffodils, and they commanded their own portrait.

Just a few of the daffodils
at Gt. Hallingbury

I was supposed to be in charge on this occasion - we take turns to run the ringing at each church - but I disgraced myself when I found it impossible to ring with new ropes that were far too long.  Instead of persevering, I gave up completely and abdicated my responsibility in favour of someone else.  It was a humiliation, but one mixed with hospitality, since local ladies had arranged coffee and biscuits down in the church, and we learned of their struggle with both finance and authorities to provide a modest kitchen in the corner of the building.  They had an on-going bric-a-brac stall, whence I was able to come away with a CD of relaxing music.

St Giles, Great Hallingbury

We had invited ringers from a neighbouring tower to join us this year, and the effect was that with more ringers, there was less demand to be constantly engaged at the end of a rope.  Instead, there was a chance to wander, take pictures, and to enjoy fellowship with the others.  It was good to sit in the sunshine and share at comfortable length the difficulties friends are coping with and, at the end of the day, to lean against a warm radiator and chew over with a local ringer the challenges of recruiting and training young folks in the skills we enjoy, only to see them all within a year, turn away to other interests.