Friday the 13th came at last. Not finding granola, I prepared myself breakfast: a couple eggs with bread quarters. When others arose, I enjoyed cereal for dessert. Presented LH a signed copy of Party Weird and gave another to Janet, our-hostess-to-be in Ireland. Lots more coming and going included many other new (to us) faces, such as Jon’s son Joe, a grandson, and Mr Pugsley the dog. Lina and I packed for our departure. Moved Louisa’s computer back upstairs. Shot a video tour of Old Park Cottage as its occupants rushed to get ready.
Back Garden at Old Park Cottage.
Loaded LH’s car with our stuff and spun up to the Gate Inn, where the proprietess showed us to our room through an unmarked door up some (like the roads) narrow, winding stairs. It’s a small chamber reached past a luxury suite and a sitting room. Like the George Hotel in Amesbury, here floors slope, and ancient, hand-hewn oak beams show. I left Lina and parked the car at the Town Hall, then crossed the road to buy a bacon quiche and apricot croissant from the French bakery. These I relished on a picnic table in the playground/ballpark in full view of Brailes Hill with its topping copse. Sun peeked through a couple times.
Returned to Gate, rested, dressed, carted Lina and Penny to the Hall, parked, and walked to the church. Took a vid of our approach as the great bells pealed from the steeple.
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Sat and waited for the tardy bride listening to organ and trumpet. The place was well-attended by all sorts of folk; several ladies besides Lina wore fine hats. Perceived the original 13th century walls and their newer additions. Found a wooden door at the back from which emanated the bells’ sound up stone spiral steps. Spoke with the vicar, who introduced me to a ringer, who said it’d be OK to ascend those stairs after the service.
At last she came, radiant and flower-coiffed, up the aisle with daughter Charlotte and the grandson as ring bearer. The service, traditional Church of England, included hymns, scripture readings, an address, vows, rings, a soloist’s song, and registering the marriage in some kind of ledger. It was just wonderful, and the vicar humorous. All filed out with immense joy.
Lina and I snuck back in and traipsed up the spiral staircase, which seemed to go on forever. At last we arrived at a sliding door, beyond which we entered the ringing chamber. There six people each held a stout rope, widened at the bottom and extending to the ceiling nearly 15 feet overhead, one bell per rope. The operators were on break and related how they did their duties: There’s a certain rhythm and sequence as to who pulls when. I asked about “change ringing,“ a traditional English art of ringing a set of tower bells in an intricate series of changes, or mathematical permutations (different orderings in the ringing sequence), by pulling ropes attached to bell wheels (Britannica), and one fellow showed me the equivalent of sheet music for such. Time quickly approached for another round, so we were told to take a seat and to not be concerned about any movement we felt.
With a countdown, the clanging began anew. All six bells sounded loudly and clearly, but we didn’t expect the whole 13th century tower to sway like it did. At one point, the sole female team member was lifted in the air by her rope. The performance went on for maybe six minutes as we sat spellbound. At the end, we thanked effusively and returned to ground.
Walked back to Town Hall to sip champagne and get to know some of the crowd. It was quite an eclectic collection of potters, printers, poets, and straight people. I immediately fell in with a total character called Jim Keeling–spitting image of Jim O’Brien–who runs Whichford Pottery just downslope from Brailes. We talked about clay and culture and travel.
Also at hand was a cask of tasty homemade apple cider from neighbor Roger, a fellow geographer. The entire group sat down to much merry feasting, toasting, and speechifying. Two front tables came out and the band played swing music for dancers late into the evening.
Accompanied by other wedding guests, we walked back to the Gate and slept soundly. Enjoyed breakfast the next morning at the George pub and said our reluctant good-byes.
Next: West to Ireland