When you think of small towns in rural England, you envision medieval stone buildings, carefully manicured gardens, and tearooms with Thomas Hardy-esque quietude, serenity, even sleepiness. That is, until you hear the bells. In every church. Ringing every hour, on the hour. Every Sunday morning, I remember incessant calls to worship at the cathedral next to my dormitory. 200 feet from my bedroom, the octogenarian campanologists of the city of Ely rehearsed matrices and permutations ad nauseam with bells that weighed three times as much as me, loud enough to wake the dead.
Bells
Pacifism in Britten’s “Ceremony of Carols”
