It's usual, at holiday times, for a list to be issued to all us self-employed types (each of whom is a law unto himself), to declare when we will or will not be available for work over the holiday period. I changed my normal pattern this year. For the last few years, I've gone away for Christmas, declared myself available over the New Year, and then had another week off in January, when I helped in the library of the Society of Genealogy during their 'working week'.
Now, you may or may not realise it, but one of the most hazardous aspects of the untrained working in libraries is the possibility of sprained thumbs as the hands are spread to their widest to lift a span of up to 5" of books at a time. The weight of this width of books along a shelf can be as little as one pound, or as much as three or four, depending upon the size, material and age of the books concerned. The resulting strain on unaccustomed hands of three or four solid days of this work can be quite deleterious, and last year I found my thumbs still aching at midsummer.
Taking this into consideration along with a number of other factors, I decided that this year would be different. I stayed at home for Christmas, and have journeyed away for part of the interval before the New Year. And then, once I've returned to work next week, if I do have time off later in the month it will be because of the seasonal downturn in the delivery business rather than to go to 'working week', much though I have enjoyed the company there in past years. This overall decision was endorsed when I discovered that I had been selected for the privilege of reading the Christmas Gospel for the midnight service. I had no intention of seeking someone with whom to swap!
So, what benefits have accrued as a result of this year's break? First of all, as expected, a week away from the disciplines of work has enabled the body to relax, and I find I'm yawning a lot as a result. The work pattern hasn't been completely cast aside, however, and I still wake up at silly o'clock in the mornings, despite retiring a little later at night. [Yes, I know that may be a cause of extra tiredness and hence yawning, but I'm sticking to my earlier excuse - sorry, explanation!] And then there's the matter of staying for some days in a family home.
As one normally living alone with full control of his time and space, the challenge of sharing these facilities with two others - however welcoming they might be - is one that has to be recognised and overcome. I have made the necessary allowances, and in return have been accorded privileges above the average due to a guest. In so doing, I have observed the details of domestic trivia being lived out around me, and compared these to the short-cuts and half-dones that are my own equivalent arrangements - and I feel enriched.
Now for the reciprocal challenge of going home ..........
Saturday, 31 December 2011
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Cross-over
Occasionally two strands of life seem to arrive at a crossroads. This month has seen one and offered the prospect of another.
Last Thursday, I was despatched to one of our customers to collect some wine for delivery 'in Woodbridge.' I entered the showroom and caused some confusion as one of the assistants exclaimed, 'Wow! that was quick - we've only just received the e-mail!' The e-mail was from satisfied customers of a holiday firm based next to Woodbridge train station, who wanted to send an alcoholic gift to the organisers of their summer vacation.
While this was being picked and packed, another member of staff approached, confirmed what I was there for, and announced that my goods were all ready, and were even then being brought up from the warehouse. Sure enough, within seconds another box arrived, addressed to 'Thomas Churchyard Close, Melton, Woodbridge.' After the confusion had been cleared up, and confirming phone calls made, I left with both orders, and everyone was happy. The Woodbridge delivery was trouble-free, apart from the unobserved step down into the office (which didn't cause me to drop the booze!), and off I went to nearby Melton.
Now comes the interesting bit. My father's maternal grandmother was Elizabeth Churchyard, descended from a whole clan of Churchyards living in the 18th and 19th centuries in a broad swathe of eastern Suffolk from Wortham to Wickham Market, and I'm confident that this Close to which I now delivered would have been named after some distant relative, even though I don't as yet have a Thomas amongst my records.
When I got there, I discovered that it is a new development of about four executive dwellings at the side of the broad grounds of a large Victorian pile. Knowing what I do, I asked the householder to whom I delivered whether this might be the former asylum. She told me that it was, and so I sneaked a picture on my way out.
My link with this place is in duplicate, for the mother-in-law of the aforesaid Elizabeth Churchyard (and therefore my great-great-grandmother), by name Sarah Thrower, née Battley, was recorded as an inmate there in the 1851 census. In 1861, she appeared re-united with her family, living in Church St, Hoxne, but when I had examined the records of the asylum at Ipswich record office some years ago, I discovered that she was once more admitted there in September 1865, and discharged the following February.
I recently discovered the whereabouts of a great-uncle whom I thought had been completely 'lost'. In a last groping search of the 1871 census, I found him in Colchester barracks - he'd become a soldier! With that lead, and amazing good fortune, I discovered that he'd been discharged from the regiment in 1876 as 'unfit for service', after suffering an accident while on a posting to Ireland. He'd declared that his future place of residence would be Enniskillen and - remarkably - I found him recorded there on the 1901 census with quite a large family!
I made enquiries about where the appropriate records are kept, and now I'm waiting for a delivery next year somewhere in Ireland, from which I can divert with a few spare hours to the General Register Office in Belfast. Hopefully, this will lead to more discoveries, but who knows when?
Last Thursday, I was despatched to one of our customers to collect some wine for delivery 'in Woodbridge.' I entered the showroom and caused some confusion as one of the assistants exclaimed, 'Wow! that was quick - we've only just received the e-mail!' The e-mail was from satisfied customers of a holiday firm based next to Woodbridge train station, who wanted to send an alcoholic gift to the organisers of their summer vacation.
While this was being picked and packed, another member of staff approached, confirmed what I was there for, and announced that my goods were all ready, and were even then being brought up from the warehouse. Sure enough, within seconds another box arrived, addressed to 'Thomas Churchyard Close, Melton, Woodbridge.' After the confusion had been cleared up, and confirming phone calls made, I left with both orders, and everyone was happy. The Woodbridge delivery was trouble-free, apart from the unobserved step down into the office (which didn't cause me to drop the booze!), and off I went to nearby Melton.
Now comes the interesting bit. My father's maternal grandmother was Elizabeth Churchyard, descended from a whole clan of Churchyards living in the 18th and 19th centuries in a broad swathe of eastern Suffolk from Wortham to Wickham Market, and I'm confident that this Close to which I now delivered would have been named after some distant relative, even though I don't as yet have a Thomas amongst my records.
When I got there, I discovered that it is a new development of about four executive dwellings at the side of the broad grounds of a large Victorian pile. Knowing what I do, I asked the householder to whom I delivered whether this might be the former asylum. She told me that it was, and so I sneaked a picture on my way out.
My link with this place is in duplicate, for the mother-in-law of the aforesaid Elizabeth Churchyard (and therefore my great-great-grandmother), by name Sarah Thrower, née Battley, was recorded as an inmate there in the 1851 census. In 1861, she appeared re-united with her family, living in Church St, Hoxne, but when I had examined the records of the asylum at Ipswich record office some years ago, I discovered that she was once more admitted there in September 1865, and discharged the following February.
I recently discovered the whereabouts of a great-uncle whom I thought had been completely 'lost'. In a last groping search of the 1871 census, I found him in Colchester barracks - he'd become a soldier! With that lead, and amazing good fortune, I discovered that he'd been discharged from the regiment in 1876 as 'unfit for service', after suffering an accident while on a posting to Ireland. He'd declared that his future place of residence would be Enniskillen and - remarkably - I found him recorded there on the 1901 census with quite a large family!
I made enquiries about where the appropriate records are kept, and now I'm waiting for a delivery next year somewhere in Ireland, from which I can divert with a few spare hours to the General Register Office in Belfast. Hopefully, this will lead to more discoveries, but who knows when?
Monday, 19 December 2011
Brian's tale
Not all the funnies come from what happens on the road. A couple of years ago, I bought a book about non-league football. It spent the usual spell on the bookshelf ignoring me, and earlier this year it jumped into my hands and said, 'read me' ... well, it happened something like that, anyway. I discovered that it had a section on one of the teams local to me, where Brian, the chap who works in our office, is on the committee. I mentioned this to him, and when I'd finished reading it, I lent the book to him.
It had thereafter dropped below my radar, until this morning when he returned it to me. I asked him if he'd enjoyed it. "Excellent!" he replied, "I've made it into print at last." I then went out on a job. Soon after my return, Brian and I met in the kitchen, and he returned to the matter of the book. I said that so far as I could remember, there was no mention of his name in the feature. He told me that, although he didn't appear by name, he was tickled to read that the writer had bought a winning ticket in the half-time raffle, and had won a box of jelly babies. Brian explained that when the raffle had started many years ago, he'd been asked to provide the jelly babies as one of the prizes, and they caused such amusement that they had not been allowed to disappear from the weekly ritual.
This anecdote seemed to release more pent up thoughts of the social side of football. Brian recalled when the writer of the book had made his visit, and he said, "It's a pity I didn't meet him. There are some strange grounds about, and I'd have given him another story or two to put in it." He then told me of a visit to a distant ground some while ago for a cup match.
"There was an old chap in the top corner of the stand, sitting there with his back turned to the field. I thought he was a tramp, and I wondered what he was doing there. I asked one of the locals, who showed no surprise at all. 'Oh, that'll be old Jim,' he told me, 'I reckon he's doing a couple of pigeons.' I looked a bit closer, and sure enough there he was - with the match in full flow behind him, happily dealing with a couple of birds. He'd got one cooking on a fire beside him, and was happily plucking the other on his knee."
We agreed that it was a good job that it hadn't been taking place in a wooden stand!
It had thereafter dropped below my radar, until this morning when he returned it to me. I asked him if he'd enjoyed it. "Excellent!" he replied, "I've made it into print at last." I then went out on a job. Soon after my return, Brian and I met in the kitchen, and he returned to the matter of the book. I said that so far as I could remember, there was no mention of his name in the feature. He told me that, although he didn't appear by name, he was tickled to read that the writer had bought a winning ticket in the half-time raffle, and had won a box of jelly babies. Brian explained that when the raffle had started many years ago, he'd been asked to provide the jelly babies as one of the prizes, and they caused such amusement that they had not been allowed to disappear from the weekly ritual.
This anecdote seemed to release more pent up thoughts of the social side of football. Brian recalled when the writer of the book had made his visit, and he said, "It's a pity I didn't meet him. There are some strange grounds about, and I'd have given him another story or two to put in it." He then told me of a visit to a distant ground some while ago for a cup match.
"There was an old chap in the top corner of the stand, sitting there with his back turned to the field. I thought he was a tramp, and I wondered what he was doing there. I asked one of the locals, who showed no surprise at all. 'Oh, that'll be old Jim,' he told me, 'I reckon he's doing a couple of pigeons.' I looked a bit closer, and sure enough there he was - with the match in full flow behind him, happily dealing with a couple of birds. He'd got one cooking on a fire beside him, and was happily plucking the other on his knee."
We agreed that it was a good job that it hadn't been taking place in a wooden stand!
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Back to School
This afternoon I made a delivery in an urban area at around 3.0 pm. As I approached my 'target', I encountered a phenomenon that has become an inescapable part of daily life for thousands (mainly young, mainly women) across the country - the School Run. I felt I was lucky to have an unimpeded course, as I ran the gauntlet of a great variety of vehicles, from humble minis to family saloons, to prestigious four-wheel drives: each presenting a doting parent or grandparent to the school gate, and each ready to receive the addition of an excited junior occupant for the return journey.
How different from my own day, I reflected. School days now are over by 3.0 - sometimes earlier, it seems. My primary school day was from 9.0 till 3.45, and when I progressed to the local Grammar School, my friends and I weren't released until 4.0 pm! At this point there was a mad dash for the buses, while those of us who lived closer to school blocked the roads with dozens of cycles, many badly ridden, or with riders who cared more for teasing their fellows than for the nebulous concept of road safety!
And while we're on the subject, let's give the old clock another twist, and go back to my parents' schooldays, during and just after the First World War. I've no idea just what time lessons finished, but the school day was a long one, especially for some children. There were no cars or buses for them. It was a tiring walk of some miles both morning and evening, and it wasn't their school books or gym kit that they carried, but a crust or two of bread for their lunch. Somehow, though, I don't see them as miserable. There would have been games and shouts as they left the school I have no doubt, just as in later generations, with taunts to each other and the occasional joke at a teacher's expense.
The young crowd would progress along the road, and grow smaller with each passing junction, as a cluster of bodies would leave the main tribe to make for its own community. As the numbers decreased, so the sound would fade too. Cheers and laughter would increasingly give way to talk of the affairs of the neighbourhood, until, as one farm gate after another claimed its brood, the minds of the siblings turned to the doings of their own families, and one would ask another whether they thought a father's field had been ploughed, or a mother's washing dried (matters that could have a dramatic bearing upon the atmosphere in the house that evening!) or the likely state of grandma's cough. And all too soon, the same groups would come forth, merge, and gather the following morning.
There was no anxiety over obesity or lack of exercise - what energy wasn't taken up in getting to and from school each day was soon consumed by chores or boisterous play at evenings and weekends. And parents would be far too busy to even dream of taking and fetching the little darlings. It was taken for granted that new starters would be taken by their older siblings, and if there weren't an older sibling, then there would be a near neighbour to show the way the first few times, and after that they were on their own. Even in my own day, I was encouraged to make an arrangement with a boy down the road to cycle together to the Grammar School on the first day of term. Of course, there weren't so many dangers in those days - of if there were, they weren't so publicised and demonised.
But reverse spectacles were always rose-tinted, and I suspect ever will be!
How different from my own day, I reflected. School days now are over by 3.0 - sometimes earlier, it seems. My primary school day was from 9.0 till 3.45, and when I progressed to the local Grammar School, my friends and I weren't released until 4.0 pm! At this point there was a mad dash for the buses, while those of us who lived closer to school blocked the roads with dozens of cycles, many badly ridden, or with riders who cared more for teasing their fellows than for the nebulous concept of road safety!
And while we're on the subject, let's give the old clock another twist, and go back to my parents' schooldays, during and just after the First World War. I've no idea just what time lessons finished, but the school day was a long one, especially for some children. There were no cars or buses for them. It was a tiring walk of some miles both morning and evening, and it wasn't their school books or gym kit that they carried, but a crust or two of bread for their lunch. Somehow, though, I don't see them as miserable. There would have been games and shouts as they left the school I have no doubt, just as in later generations, with taunts to each other and the occasional joke at a teacher's expense.
The young crowd would progress along the road, and grow smaller with each passing junction, as a cluster of bodies would leave the main tribe to make for its own community. As the numbers decreased, so the sound would fade too. Cheers and laughter would increasingly give way to talk of the affairs of the neighbourhood, until, as one farm gate after another claimed its brood, the minds of the siblings turned to the doings of their own families, and one would ask another whether they thought a father's field had been ploughed, or a mother's washing dried (matters that could have a dramatic bearing upon the atmosphere in the house that evening!) or the likely state of grandma's cough. And all too soon, the same groups would come forth, merge, and gather the following morning.
There was no anxiety over obesity or lack of exercise - what energy wasn't taken up in getting to and from school each day was soon consumed by chores or boisterous play at evenings and weekends. And parents would be far too busy to even dream of taking and fetching the little darlings. It was taken for granted that new starters would be taken by their older siblings, and if there weren't an older sibling, then there would be a near neighbour to show the way the first few times, and after that they were on their own. Even in my own day, I was encouraged to make an arrangement with a boy down the road to cycle together to the Grammar School on the first day of term. Of course, there weren't so many dangers in those days - of if there were, they weren't so publicised and demonised.
But reverse spectacles were always rose-tinted, and I suspect ever will be!
Saturday, 10 December 2011
More tea, vicar?
It was the first day of the summer holidays. Dave had a nice new blue ball, and was off to play with his friends. The ball was a big hit, and day after day they played with it all day long. His particular friends were Nick and Angela, and as the days passed they devised quite a complicated game to play with it; others came along too, and great fun was had by all.
Then one day, the others found a new ball. This one was red and white, with lots of bright pictures all over it. It was much more popular with the gang than Dave's old blue one and as they played with it, Nick and Angela and the others thought up new rules to adapt their game and make it even more fun. Everyone else thought these changes were a good idea and happily joined in. Dave didn't like these new ideas and tried to get the others to stick to the original game, but when they told him he ought to loosen up and think modern, he told them they couldn't play with his blue ball, and made a big show of stalking off home with it.
When he got home, he found the vicar had called to take tea with his mother. Pleased to see Dave, the vicar switched on his friendly vicar smile, and asked him how he was getting on with his friends. Quite sure that he'd made the right decisions, Dave told him all about the new game, and how he'd protested by taking his ball back.
Now the vicar was one of those people who are tricky to talk to because they make you think about yourself and what you're up to. On his way there, he'd noticed the fun all the children seemed be having - with the red and white ball - and he asked Dave what he thought he'd gained by walking off on his own. Who did he think he'd be playing with tomorrow?
Dave had lost none of his self-confidence. "Nick, Angie and all the others, of course," he exclaimed, "I'm still one of the gang!"
The vicar smiled gently to himself ... and was there a muttered "I wonder ..." on his breath as he turned away?
Then one day, the others found a new ball. This one was red and white, with lots of bright pictures all over it. It was much more popular with the gang than Dave's old blue one and as they played with it, Nick and Angela and the others thought up new rules to adapt their game and make it even more fun. Everyone else thought these changes were a good idea and happily joined in. Dave didn't like these new ideas and tried to get the others to stick to the original game, but when they told him he ought to loosen up and think modern, he told them they couldn't play with his blue ball, and made a big show of stalking off home with it.
When he got home, he found the vicar had called to take tea with his mother. Pleased to see Dave, the vicar switched on his friendly vicar smile, and asked him how he was getting on with his friends. Quite sure that he'd made the right decisions, Dave told him all about the new game, and how he'd protested by taking his ball back.
Now the vicar was one of those people who are tricky to talk to because they make you think about yourself and what you're up to. On his way there, he'd noticed the fun all the children seemed be having - with the red and white ball - and he asked Dave what he thought he'd gained by walking off on his own. Who did he think he'd be playing with tomorrow?
Dave had lost none of his self-confidence. "Nick, Angie and all the others, of course," he exclaimed, "I'm still one of the gang!"
The vicar smiled gently to himself ... and was there a muttered "I wonder ..." on his breath as he turned away?
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Squashed weekend
You know how, when you splat a fly (if you're quick enough!) it's a sudden death, albeit there's a bit of a mess to clean up; ... that's something like I felt this afternoon. Let me start at the beginning. On Friday evening, I returned from a couple of good jobs at around 6.30, to find the controller on the phone, taking a rather complicated instruction for a job later in the evening. As I listened, and watched what he was writing, I realised that part of the job involved a visit to an electronic engineer to whom I'd delivered many times before, about 30 miles away.
Since I knew at least that part of the job, and because the week had been a little straitened income-wise, I suggested that he get me to do it. He was pleased, because it meant that he wouldn't have the bother of calling someone else out. The upshot was that, by the time I'd met another engineer in the centre of a city some 100 miles away - the second part of the job - and returned home, it was 3.0 am, and well past my bedtime! Since I had no special plans for Saturday, I didn't mind this, and it was wonderful to wake up to wall-to-wall sunshine, instead of pre-dawn mist and fog.
Then this morning after church, I called at the cashpoint before driving the last leg of the short journey home. As I stood there, keying in my PIN, I heard my mobile register an incoming text. It was my voicemail, trying to tell me that I had a message ... only there wasn't one, and no missed call either! Puzzled, I mentally dismissed it as an electronic quirk, came home and thought about lunch. Then the phone rang with a proper call. It was the controller from work. Now, normally I don't work on Sundays as a matter of principle. However, he knows that I don't mind being disturbed if it's only to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and that was the case today.
I was gone only about three-quarters of an hour, and returned with one small box, to deliver about two-and-a-half hours' drive away in the morning. The only thing is that, in order to get there by the required delivery time, I shall have to be up at around 3.30 am. With this hanging over me, as it were, the afternoon has seemed somewhat artificial. I'm not sure how I can better describe it. I haven't been able to settle to any particular task, because I know that I won't have the usual length of Sunday afternoon and evening before me, in which to get to grips with anything.
The weekend was foreshortened at the start, and now with bedtime fast approaching, it will end prematurely as well. It's just one more restriction in the haphazard life of a 24-hour courier, I suppose .... I'm glad I'm not a fly, though!
Since I knew at least that part of the job, and because the week had been a little straitened income-wise, I suggested that he get me to do it. He was pleased, because it meant that he wouldn't have the bother of calling someone else out. The upshot was that, by the time I'd met another engineer in the centre of a city some 100 miles away - the second part of the job - and returned home, it was 3.0 am, and well past my bedtime! Since I had no special plans for Saturday, I didn't mind this, and it was wonderful to wake up to wall-to-wall sunshine, instead of pre-dawn mist and fog.
Then this morning after church, I called at the cashpoint before driving the last leg of the short journey home. As I stood there, keying in my PIN, I heard my mobile register an incoming text. It was my voicemail, trying to tell me that I had a message ... only there wasn't one, and no missed call either! Puzzled, I mentally dismissed it as an electronic quirk, came home and thought about lunch. Then the phone rang with a proper call. It was the controller from work. Now, normally I don't work on Sundays as a matter of principle. However, he knows that I don't mind being disturbed if it's only to pick up something for delivery on Monday, and that was the case today.
I was gone only about three-quarters of an hour, and returned with one small box, to deliver about two-and-a-half hours' drive away in the morning. The only thing is that, in order to get there by the required delivery time, I shall have to be up at around 3.30 am. With this hanging over me, as it were, the afternoon has seemed somewhat artificial. I'm not sure how I can better describe it. I haven't been able to settle to any particular task, because I know that I won't have the usual length of Sunday afternoon and evening before me, in which to get to grips with anything.
The weekend was foreshortened at the start, and now with bedtime fast approaching, it will end prematurely as well. It's just one more restriction in the haphazard life of a 24-hour courier, I suppose .... I'm glad I'm not a fly, though!
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Good ringing - and a bit of photography
Ringing is commonplace ... well, it is for bellringers, at any rate. If you are unfortunate not to like the sound of bells and live next to a church (and why would you?) it's no pleasure, I grant you. But for the rest of us, the nights when it all comes together, and a touch is rung without a slip or a clash, and no one loses their way ... it's sheer bliss - a real privilege to be part of!
And then there's that special occasion, when there's a need for the ringing to be a little out of the ordinary. A special service, perhaps, when we need to get it right because there's an important guest. Or when a prominent resident has an umptieth birthday. On such occasions, we often ring (or attempt to ring) a quarter peal. That's a particular composition including at least 1,250 changes, and it requires about three-quarters of an hour of non-stop ringing. But the sound itself is still commonplace - especially to the untrained ear: ding, dong, ding, dong,
Last Sunday evening, we rang a quarter peal for Remembrance Sunday. Now this was most definitely NOT commonplace. Instead of ding, dong, ding, dong, the bells were half-muffled, and the sound was ding, dong, bing, bong! Since I wasn't actually taking part in the ringing, I decided to go along with my camera and record this unusual occurrence.
The first change rang out with the usual vibrant sound of metal on metal, but the next change sounded the more mellow tone of leather on metal. To achieve this, the clapper of each bell is muted by strapping onto it a leather pad. We have to be careful to get the pads, called 'muffles' fixed to the same side of each clapper, or else some of the dull strokes would be mixed with the 'open' or normal strokes, and vice versa. Of course, the muffles have to be on the correct side of the clappers, so that the first stroke is the open one and the second is the muffled one; and they have to be fastened securely, too. If not, with all the vibration of ringing, they can slip around the clapper, allowing the metal to strike the bell at both strokes, with the muffle hanging uselessly by the side. If this should happen, we all know who to blame - the poor steeplekeeper - although the 'blame' is cast with broad smiles and no rancour, because we all know how difficult this can be in a dimly lit bell-chamber, with a howling and chilling gale whistling around the ears (and elsewhere!)
Muffled, or half-muffled, ringing sometimes marks the funeral of a much respected member of the community, and in some places is part of the New Year celebrations. The old year is rung out with muffled bells, and the new one rung in with the bells open. To achieve this, someone has to scurry rapidly up to the bells to remove the muffles as quickly as possible between the two pieces of ringing. This is not only difficult, as noted above, but is also very dangerous because, with the bells raised into the ringing position, each one is precariously balanced, without restraint.
Such a task might be undertaken by two people together, so that one could lift the clapper and perhaps steady the bell, while the other one attacked the fastenings of the muffle. All the time, both of them would have to be extremely careful not to nudge one of the other bells, and knock if off balance. Quite apart from the effects of the noise when a bell is rung close by (have you read Dorothy L Sayers' excellent book 'The Nine Tailors'?), if one's body happens to be in the path of the moving bell, serious injury is almost certain to ensue, since a piece of moving metal weighing anything up to a tonne is somewhat unforgiving, to say the least! For these reasons, while it may have been common in past ages, this practice is quite rare today, since attention to bells while they are in this position is widely forbidden on health and safety grounds.
When teaching beginners to ring, we always warn of the dangers inherent in the art, and the need to respect the bells and their power. At the same time it is clear to anyone spending time in a ringing chamber just what a lot of fun there is to be had there, as well as healthy exercise for both mind and body.
And then there's that special occasion, when there's a need for the ringing to be a little out of the ordinary. A special service, perhaps, when we need to get it right because there's an important guest. Or when a prominent resident has an umptieth birthday. On such occasions, we often ring (or attempt to ring) a quarter peal. That's a particular composition including at least 1,250 changes, and it requires about three-quarters of an hour of non-stop ringing. But the sound itself is still commonplace - especially to the untrained ear: ding, dong, ding, dong,
Last Sunday evening, we rang a quarter peal for Remembrance Sunday. Now this was most definitely NOT commonplace. Instead of ding, dong, ding, dong, the bells were half-muffled, and the sound was ding, dong, bing, bong! Since I wasn't actually taking part in the ringing, I decided to go along with my camera and record this unusual occurrence.
The first change rang out with the usual vibrant sound of metal on metal, but the next change sounded the more mellow tone of leather on metal. To achieve this, the clapper of each bell is muted by strapping onto it a leather pad. We have to be careful to get the pads, called 'muffles' fixed to the same side of each clapper, or else some of the dull strokes would be mixed with the 'open' or normal strokes, and vice versa. Of course, the muffles have to be on the correct side of the clappers, so that the first stroke is the open one and the second is the muffled one; and they have to be fastened securely, too. If not, with all the vibration of ringing, they can slip around the clapper, allowing the metal to strike the bell at both strokes, with the muffle hanging uselessly by the side. If this should happen, we all know who to blame - the poor steeplekeeper - although the 'blame' is cast with broad smiles and no rancour, because we all know how difficult this can be in a dimly lit bell-chamber, with a howling and chilling gale whistling around the ears (and elsewhere!)
Muffled, or half-muffled, ringing sometimes marks the funeral of a much respected member of the community, and in some places is part of the New Year celebrations. The old year is rung out with muffled bells, and the new one rung in with the bells open. To achieve this, someone has to scurry rapidly up to the bells to remove the muffles as quickly as possible between the two pieces of ringing. This is not only difficult, as noted above, but is also very dangerous because, with the bells raised into the ringing position, each one is precariously balanced, without restraint.
Such a task might be undertaken by two people together, so that one could lift the clapper and perhaps steady the bell, while the other one attacked the fastenings of the muffle. All the time, both of them would have to be extremely careful not to nudge one of the other bells, and knock if off balance. Quite apart from the effects of the noise when a bell is rung close by (have you read Dorothy L Sayers' excellent book 'The Nine Tailors'?), if one's body happens to be in the path of the moving bell, serious injury is almost certain to ensue, since a piece of moving metal weighing anything up to a tonne is somewhat unforgiving, to say the least! For these reasons, while it may have been common in past ages, this practice is quite rare today, since attention to bells while they are in this position is widely forbidden on health and safety grounds.
When teaching beginners to ring, we always warn of the dangers inherent in the art, and the need to respect the bells and their power. At the same time it is clear to anyone spending time in a ringing chamber just what a lot of fun there is to be had there, as well as healthy exercise for both mind and body.
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