Open Writing

I was prompted to stroll down memory lane by the recent death of Les Beazley, the father of an old mate, who was a life-long bell-ringer or campanologist in my home town.

I was born and grew up in a small village in southern England called Wootton Bassett. There was one main street, a few hundred houses, numerous pubs and an Anglican Church, St. Bartholemew's.

When I grew too old for choirboy duties, I progressed to the bell tower, which kept me out of mischief over a period of several years. We would ring before Evensong, with a practice session mid-week, and occasionally for a wedding or funeral, for which we received a small fee. It was the custom for funerals to ring a Muffled Peal, which entailed covering the clappers of the bells with a piece of material, to deaden the sound.

Bells in the resting position hang downwards, for safety, as the largest ones are very heavy, but have to be 'pulled up' ready for use. No particular strength is required to ring a bell, but the skill is in the ability to hold it balanced at the top of its swing, on a piece of wood called a 'stay', until exactly the right moment to let it fall. It takes time and patience to learn this skill, and unfortunately it is not possible to hide your mistakes, when the sound carries to all parts of the village. The day following a practice session, one of my neighbours would often come up to me with a smirk and ask, 'Was that you up in the tower last night on number 5, our Nick?' One of the most difficult tasks was to stop the bell from swinging, when the peal was over. Learners were frequently embarrassed when they were unable to do this, and their bell kept on ringing long after all the others were silent.

The cardinal sin, which was drummed into us well, was 'Never let go of the rope'. It would be better to go swinging up to the ceiling than to let go, as a bell out of control could cause the rope to go snaking around inside the tower in an extremely dangerous fashion.

The tower master, who kept us all in our place, was Mr. Wilson. I thought he was incredibly ancient, and I believe he was in his 80s. He was a wiry little man, certainly not muscly, but he was in charge of the big bass bell, the anchor for the whole peal. We most often rang a simple octave from top to bottom, but the more experienced bell-ringers would 'Ring the Changes' such as Plain Bob and Grandsire. I never graduated to changes, as I could never remember the correct sequence. When I tried, my bell would be all over the place, and Mr. Wilson would be glaring and shouting at me, in a vain attempt to get me back into line.

On Sundays, when we finished the peal, we would climb down the steep staircase from the tower and sneak into a back pew to join in the church service, but on Thursday nights of course it was down the tower quick and off to the nearest pub for a few pints. The girl I was courting at the time, who became my wife, spent many a chilly hour sitting in the bell-tower watching me ring, so that we could walk home together afterwards. She never wanted to try her hand, and I can only assume that my company was irresistible.

I was very disappointed on moving to Australia to find that there were very few real bell towers in existence. Some have the modern electronic carillons, which though delightful in their own way, can't compare with the sound of a peal of real bells.

When I returned to UK for a visit in 1988, I was pleased that although Mr. Wilson and many of the others were long gone, the bells in St Bartholemew's tower were still in working order. Les sent me back up the bell-tower and arranged for me to try my hand at my old skill. Much to my embarrassment, as I pulled the bell up to its highest point, I managed to break the 'stay'. I wonder if the locals commented on the horrible noise, 'Sounds like that Nick Ogbourne's back. Could always tell when he was practising!'

©Nick Ogbourne

If you'd like to listen to some church bells, go to http://www.hibberts.co.uk/belllist.htm