The bells, the bells
Just when I think there is not much for me to write about if ever I did get round to doing the autobiography, two things happen. After a nice Sunday lunch of local hoggett, we sit down on the expansive Champagne-Charlie sofas and hear the Remembrance Sunday bells ringing outside. 'You have to come outside and listen to these,' I say. 'They're half muffled.' Mr Champagne-Charlie comes out like a shot but his wife, Bubble, and Pelly Sheepwash take a little persuading, until Mr Grigg explains how for years he has been going up in the bell tower, fastening the little leather mufflers to the clappers on the bells each Remembrance Sunday. In deference to his annual bravery, they come out with me to listen. The bells peal in rounds, clittery-clattery loud and then a perfect muffled echo. The bells are yelling to each other and whispering back. It is a conversation worth listening to. And then the ringers get into a sequence called Whittington: ' Turn again Wh...