Tag: Dorset

A bit of a ding dong

The church bells are still silent in Lush Places.

Meanwhile, I’m in France where the church bells in our village chime the hour twice, every hour (it’s about to strike three o’clock and they’ll go dong, dong, dong. And then a break and then dong, dong, dong again).

But the bells here do shut up at night. However, during the day, at noon and at seven o’clock, they chime until they’re fit to burst, calling in the workers from the fields for lunch and evening meal respectively.

Last week, a former colleague reminded of a notice I’ve seen in many French villages, drawing outsiders’ attention to the perils of rural life.

This is the country where village signs up and down the land have been turned on their heads. This latest farmers’ protest alludes to having their own lives turned upside down by contradictory instructions. See the BBC story here.

I hope a solution can be found to the silencing of our village bells back in Dorset.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful if, in addition to the automatic hourly chiming being restored, a new team of bellringers steps forward to pull the ropes on Sundays and high days and holidays?

The bells aren’t rung on a Sunday at the moment because there’s no tower captain nor regular team of ringers.

It would be lovely if the positive outcome of the silence of the bells story was that volunteers joined forces for bellringing to happen once again.

The sound of silence

Well, that didn’t last long, did it?

This time last week, I was waxing lyrical about the arrival of spring and the long-missed sound of the chiming of the church clock on the hour.

I even wrote about its repair for my not-yet-published editorial in the parish magazine, which has gone to press but isn’t out yet:

It is a joy to see it working again and chiming the hour, too. It’s been a part of village life for so long, it’s like welcoming back an old friend.

And then that ‘old friend’ promptly turned around and fled.

You see, after just two days, the church clock was stopped from chiming.

Apparently, someone new to the village complained that it was keeping them awake.

I’m not angry but I am saddened and upset. Village life is precious and the clock has been there for generations, an aural reminder of the passing of time. It takes one person to complain and then the bell is cancelled.

Now I know there are more important things in the world to worry about right now, and I don’t wish to go all Wicker Man, but the chiming on the hour, all day and all night, has been part and parcel of this village for years.

Which is why it was such a delight to hear it again.

Could there be a compromise? Maybe the clock could chime the hour only during the day. Apparently, though, that comes at quite a cost. I’ve heard £2,000-plus mentioned. And I’m not happy that the church would have to pay that just to satisfy one complainant. I’m not prepared to chip in, either.

I live near the church and I can honestly say that the hourly chiming has never kept me awake. You become accustomed to the sound. Your brain tunes out.

I do hope church leaders can resolve the problem swiftly.

Ruby’s happy place down at West Bay

With Storm Barra battering the country just ten days after Storm Arwen left a trail of havoc in its wake, now is not a good time to visit the coast.

Usually, I would have been down at West Bay this morning, letting Ruby run wild on the farthest beach on the Esplanade to the west, which is open to dogs all year round.

This part of the little resort on the Dorset coast is my girl’s happy place.

But the tide is high today and and the field and hills are wet with mud and rain. So she’s restricted to a quick scoot around the village before we hunker down at home.

On her beach at West Bay, Ruby loves to chase seagulls along the shore. It’s lovely to come here first thing, just as the sun begins its daily journey west.

I’m impressed by the sea swimmers who jump into the water quite often at this time of the morning. But that’s not for me.

At this time of year, though, when the hill and the fields are muddy, the beach down at the Bay is where you’ll find Ruby and me.

I love West Bay. I have done since I first arrived in Bridport as a young reporter nearly forty years ago. My brother, though, just doesn’t get it, preferring instead the beauty of Lyme Regis. My late father used to call West Bay ‘that place with a hole in the middle’ (meaning the harbour). But I love the Bay for its cliffs and shoreline, although I steer clear of going anywhere near East Cliff, which is prone to landslips without warning.

I love West Bay for its harbour, its eclectic mix of buildings of all styles, its mix of chi chi and pleb, the caravan site and its food kiosks, although I would recommend avoiding the two operated by convicted puppy farmers.

There’s nothing quite like starting the day down on the beach with Ruby, feeling the wind blowing through your hair and watching the sun coming up over the water, casting rays of light like an advert for a spiritual awakening.

And then popping into the Windy Corner Cafe for a very nice coffee and cake – or breakfast if that’s your bag. Dogs are welcome here, to the extent that they’ll be offered a biscuit or five within seconds of walking through the door. Lovely. They can have my custom any day.

But today, we’re confined to the house as we watch Storm Barra doing its business outside.

That’s about it.

Love, Maddie x