Ireland with B&I

May 1985 and the legendary unofficial ringing holiday to Ireland.
Masterminded by the equally legendary John Goldrick et al.


Bells are booming down the bohreens,
White on black the contents of the glass.
Now we intrepid ringers by various means,
Move between lands on a tour no other will surpass.
On the boat some turned green as an apple,
Others with listing pints did grapple,
Sloping floor and carpet stained,
But at last our goal it was attained,
With many a thankful ringing lass.

Now after those painstaking preparations,
We are ready to do Ireland in seven days,
One of our number goes off to grab the stations,
The rest to "The Yaught" with no delays!
Dublin, and to the challenge of St Patrick's we rose,
Then to Drogheda, distant by several stone throws,
Back to St Audeon's our navigation perfected,
Blessington are anticlockwise, maybe that's why we detected,
Something wrong with the raise!

In Bray a lady with tape-recorder,
Put our ringing to the test,
We thought Grandsire Triples in order,
And she was duly impressed.
Then with microphone averted,
Soon striking deserted,
Eight-spliced got as far as,
Three, perhaps not all of us,
Were giving of our best.

Heavy bells, far and foreign,
Roads with craters all over the place,
Largest stone circle will not be forgotten,
Handbell notes for a while filled that space.
Nocturnal ringing at Doneraile was plotted,
But that hoax was very soon spotted.
Stone walled cabins, thatched with reeds,
Supplied our accommodation needs,
Of sleepless nights there was not a trace.

Will it hold this hot May weather?
Draining the deepest vessels dry,
When we tower-grabbed together,
And the time just seemd to fly.
Till there arose abrupt and lonely,
A ruined abbey, chancel only,
Imediately by handbell ringers befriended,
The tower had a belfry with floor, splendid!
Plain Bob Minor soon rang out from on high.

Would a tower escape detection?
Why is it the navigator hesitates,
At an unexpected change in direction?
Panic over there are the church gates.
Oh no! They're beginning to lower,
Run, or we'll miss the tower!
It was close, but all grabbed that green Kingdom,
In a week without a moment of tedium.
Where next I wonder, the United States?

Mystery Photo

The one and only!

A Lincolnshire Tour

This was a few years ago now (1990),
but it seems like only yesterday...

The Welsh Colleges Summer Tour is upon us methinks,
I've beard it's to Boston in the county of Lincs.
Starting on Wednesday - the week to reduce,
Traveling by bike to save on car juice.

With the sun sinking fast we tried every lane,
To find the Parish Hall, our search seemed in vain,
At last, I can see it, I think we've been done,
Kate said it's by Barclays, but there are two banks not one

Soon all were assembled, and as day turned to night,
Liquid refreshment at the Wormgate seemed right,
Many reunions meant much to be said,
It was late by the time we all got to bed.

Thursday dawned bright with the promise of sun,
First stop Fishtoft, then on to Freiston,
Our hosts made us welcome, hardly mentioning The Times
And its front page report of Tower Grabbers crimes!

Lunch after Butterwick, we repaired to the pub,
Oh dear Kate, it doesn't do grub,
Unfortunate cyclists dined at the Spar,
Luckily Leverton wasn't too far.

Lastly to Lincoln via a motor car ride,
A magnificent Cathedral it can't be denied,
On a gentle eminence standing greyly tremendous,
Compelling belief, unquestionably numinous.

Friday began cooler, but no sign of a hill,
Just flower-full churches, and the occasional windmill,
Wainfleet's was different, now bereft of all sails,
It's found a new purpose, brewing Bateman's fine ales.

This is the life, when the worst of your troubles,
Are learning Lincoln Minor, and St Swithin's Doubles,
These went ok, not so the Swineshead,
Revisited at Bicker, in the last lead defeated.

Sutterton bells were sweet to the ear,
The local radio recorded us here,
Martin and Kate were interviewed as well,
Gary joined in on his bicycle bell!

On to Kirton, and the close of the day,
For want of a Home, 6-spliced got away,
Tea in the church brought welcome revival,
While Chris played an impromptu organ recital.

Back in the hall, now ringing had ceased,
The catering corps prepared a hot chilli feast,
Fruit salad for pudding, with custard in surfeit,
The jug full leftover? Darren found a use for it...

A new shampoo has now been invented,
Made by Ambrosia and intriguingly scented,
Chris, our pianist, coiffeured in yellow,
Played on undaunted, what an excellent fellow!

And so to Sunday, the tour's nearly gone,
Oh, a spare postcard, who haven't I sent one?
Packing proceeding, bags looking plump,
Soon everything's in, now for the Stump.

Lincolnshire Royal, I can't learn this line,
Panic set in as the tenor struck nine...
Shall I ever forget what a stillness was there,
When the bell ceased its tolling and thinned on the air?

There was no need to worry, it all came out right,
Though Darren couldn't do Little Bob, try as he might.
Maybe another time, for now it's goodbye,
Until next we meet in Ross-on-Wye!

--ooOOoo--

The Betjeman poem that this was based on had 16 verses
and I remember talking to Darren about potential material
I could have used for another verse. One of the churches we
visited had a former vicar who held a record for hammer throwing.
And I recall Darren saying something about an escapade possibly
involving a late night visit to a Chinese Take Away? The details
are now lost in the mists of time - which is perhaps the best place for
them! So the 16th and final verse is necessarily inconclusive but
hopefully not too disappointing:

I've tried in vain the years to reverse,
In search of the missing 16th verse.
Or have I been censored, the revelation forbidden,
To ensure Father Darren's secret stays hidden...?

Wild Rover

The 25th Anniversary Dinner at Malvern in February 1984
sought to inaugurate a tradition of community singing.
Number one on the song sheet was a unique rendering of
Wild Rover. Exactly who was responsible for this composition
may never be known...

I've been a bell ringer for many a year,
And I've spent all my money on peal fees and beer.
Now I'm returning towers grabbed in great store,
And I promise to be a bell ringer no more.

And it's no, nay, never,
No nay never no more,
Will I be a bell ringer,
No never, no more.

I rang for a wedding at our local church,
Where the poor old bride she got left in the lurch.
I said to her love, I know just how you feel,
I felt the same way when I lost my first peal!

We often ring Cambridge or London Surprise,
And none of the learners can believe their eyes.
Really we don't know what place we are in,
We're just looking for gaps and then filling them in!

We sometimes ring three leads of Kent Treble Bob,
And the man on the tenor is given the job,
Of calling a bob each time the treble snaps,
And it comes round at backstroke except for mishaps!

Now my peals number a thousand or more,
And my Dove's is completed right down to the core.
I often think back to my earlier days,
When everything seemed like one long drunken haze!

WC History

This is a blog for collecting material/comments for a possible WC history.