Hell's Bells!

I don’t think I’m a complete idiot, yet through a combination of cultural differences (yes, even here), lack of familiarity with the city, and perhaps OCCASIONALLY my own absentmindedness, I keep getting myself into situations where I want to be swallowed up by the earth. I could tell you about my humiliating stint as the world’s worst soccer linesperson, during which I tried to wear the flag and missed the most critical offside call of the game. Instead, I’ll regale you with last night’s adventures in bellringing.

Bellringing? Why, yes. I thought it might be a fun activity to try while living in Britain. So last night I arrived at a city-centre church for a beginner’s session, smiling in anticipation as I heard bells from above. A woman was just closing the main part of the church for the day. She pointed me to a door in one wall, and as I opened it she cut the lights and catapulted me into near darkness. The heavy door swung shut behind me and I was in the tiniest, narrowest, dankest little winding stone stairwell I’d ever been in, with midget-sized steps that could barely accommodate my aforementioned size-10 Converse sneakers, and I experienced momentary terror due to claustrophobia and vertigo. Talking to myself to calm my nerves I climbed and climbed and climbed, until I reached a landing and a door and … walked right into a surprised and annoyed group of seasoned ringers! I was at the wrong church! Saint this, Saint that, how many churches named after saints can there BE? I hustled down the stairs again as quickly as I dared, only to discover that I was LOCKED IN. I considered huddling at the door to wait until the group had finished ringing, and wondered whether that would be more pathetic or less pathetic than doing a walk of shame back up to interrupt them AGAIN and request that someone let me out. I chose the latter, since I had no idea how long they would be and the church was really creepy at night. It was about as mortifying an experience as you’d expect.

Finally liberated from a church in which I will never set foot again, I raced up the street to the right church, beet red in the face and cursing myself. There were no sounds of bellringing here, because, as I was told when met at the door, they muffle them for learners. Duh. When I reached the ringing room I was sent up a narrow, creaky aluminum ladder into the belfry to see how the bells work, with instructions like “now in order to get onto the next ladder you have to grab that piece of wood, edge along that precipice, swing from one arm while getting your leg up onto that plank NO DON’T LOOK DOWN!” Okay, of course I’m exaggerating, but while I was clinging a few storeys up a flimsy and completely vertical ladder I was told to reach out behind me to grab the clapper on an enormous bell and pull it towards me. I did so rather too vigorously, assuming ALL the bells were muted, and nearly dropped like a stone when an enormous DONGGGGGGGG! rang forth inches from my ears (and was surely heard in London). I could feel the ladder reverberating with the noise, and the faint sounds of yelling from down below. I edged back down the ladder with my teeth still rattling and was relieved to see they were laughing. However, the woman then told me that at first she thought I was a Laura, and she was so glad I was in fact a Moira because they already had so many Lauras it was becoming a pain. While I hesitated in confusion my chance to correct her passed, and when asked I muttered my name unintelligibly for the rest of the evening. Except for once when I forgot and spoke it clearly. I got a fishy stare from across the room, as if I had suddenly and obnoxiously decided to complicate the roster.

Bellringing is harder than I imagined. Kind of like learning to drive a manual transmission, it takes time to get the feeling of it, to know what needs to happen and when. And there are all kinds of possibilities for ridiculous accidents, like an errant length of rope getting caught on someone and hauling them up to the ceiling (you always sit with feet flat on ground and arms close to body when you’re not ringing), or the wooden part that keeps the bell from going around 360 degrees snapping and sending YOU hurtling upwards. I was told not to worry, that if it happens you just let go of the rope. But if waterskiing has taught me anything, it’s that my grip seizes up when disaster strikes (even as I’m being dragged along on my belly and inhaling half the lake). I stayed to watch as the experienced members arrived and did some proper ringing. They were nice people, and it sounded joyful. But as for the ringing itself, I’m not sure I quite get the appeal. (Ah ha ha ha! ApPEAL! Oh, I kill myself.)