Kent
I rang Kent tonight: Kent Treble Bob Minor. I rang it badly, and I rang it with a minder* whispering sweet nothings in my ear** . . . but I rang it. This is another of those moments, like ringing Stedman for the first time–ringing it as opposed to being dragged through it by Wild Robert with a mad gleam in his eye—when the world pauses, and you descend, as from a trolley car, and get on another trolley and trundle off*** into a whole new world/public transport route.
I rang Kent.† Kent.
Kent isn’t quite surprise—the surprise methods are the acme of ringing methods, although there are, of course, levels of surprise†† too—but Kent is upper level. I am an upper level ringer.††† Yowzah hallelujah, how did that happen?
I’m as dazed by this revelation as I am because it’s so sudden. I toiled away at a plain course of Stedman doubles for . . . years. ‡ I knew that after Stedman you can dither around indefinitely, and a lot of people stop there—a lot of people never arrive at the far end of Stedman at all. It too is upper level, but it’s probably the commonest of the upper level methods, and it’s the one that if you’re going to essay the heights at all you’ll probably go there. When Wild Robert decided to throw me off the deep end into something, he threw me into Stedman.
Niall had told me to learn the line for Kent a fortnight or so ago—we were going to try it at home practise‡‡ but that didn’t happen: I rang Stedman triples two Fridays ago, and then last Friday I’d mislaid my Stedman doubles and wanted to find them again (whimper). But I had learnt Kent, more or less, but one of the disconcerting things about it is that it wasn’t a big deal. Most of it is familiar from other methods—it just goes on rather longer, and uses more of those familiar bits all stuck together, and you have to remember—or find a way to remember—which bits and in what order. But I still needed a chance to put my learning into practise: hands on a rope.‡‡‡ I could be wrong about its not being a huge big deal. And then Colin said last Thursday after handbells, come to our tower practise on Monday, we’ll give you some Kent.
And they did. And I rang it. As I say, badly. But it’s not going to take years this time. I’ll probably be able to ring it without a minder next time I try§. I’ll still be ringing it badly, but I’ll know what I’m trying to do.
Colin has a new learner; I hadn’t met her before. She added to my sense of the surreal tonight. I still so vividly remember those first lessons, trying to cope with the frelling rope, and several hundred pounds of rather self-willed or possibly demon-possessed bell on the other end of it. It takes forever just to be able to ring rounds steadily—and you’re thinking, while you struggle: I’m supposed to learn to move one of these wretched bells around in its place in the row? And, furthermore, to do things like dodge, or make places, or make the bob, which involve frantic jerking §§ and changing speed and direction? Are you kidding? I was watching the new learner concentrate and thinking, oh, honey, you have no idea. Chances are she won’t make it—far more people drop out than last even long enough to learn to ring that first hair-raising method inside—but maybe she’ll be one of the ones that does. It’s a long road. I remember being where she is and watching people ringing things like . . . Kent. And surprise. And thinking, okay, I won’t get that far, I haven’t got the right shape of brain §§§—but that’s okay. And now I’ve been ringing—since I started again—five years next month. And I’m ringing Kent.
Because with Kent you’re saying, yes, okay, I want to ring surprise. I’m not stopping. I want the full deal. I am insane. I am insane but I’m going to do it. It’s clear to me that I am going to do it: that I can. That’s the new trolley car. I know I’ve told you that the first time I started learning to ring I dropped out when the ME made me drop out, but I also dropped out at the point that I was failing to make the ginormous leap from ringing treble to ringing inside: I still say that’s the hardest moment in ringing, learning to ring inside for the first time. I didn’t start ringing again because I was afraid it wasn’t that the ME had been eating my brain, but that I was simply incapable of making that transition. Even when I started ringing again I was going to be happy if I learnt to manage a few of the basic-est basics: plain bob doubles, Grandsire doubles, bob minor. A minimus method or two for Sunday mornings when only four ringers show up. Maaaaaaybe Grandsire triples. In my wildest dreams. And then Wild Robert took a fancy to teach me Stedman. And then. . . . I am going to be a surprise ringer.¤ I honest and truly am. ¤¤
Oh yes and my Stedman (doubles) is back: we rang a touch at the end tonight and I singled away like anything.¤¤¤ Phew.
PS: I’m going to meet a Potential Voice Teacher tomorrow for a chat and a trial lesson. Stay tuned.
* * *
* Who once or twice made the educational experience more enlivening by minding me wrong
** Thirds over the treble and the five! Fourths over the tenor! Nick nack paddy whack give your dog a bone!
*** Ting ting ting ting ting
† Anyone here old/uncool/downright strange enough to remember Jenny Kissed Me? http://www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~lavie/dreamwine/hunt1.html
I rang Kent tonight. Forget
How much that I have not done.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Peaks on your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;^
Say I’m growing old, but add—
I rang Kent.
^ There’s still time
†† All puns gratefully acknowledged
††† I’m still a deeply mediocre, erratic, unreliable, bottom-end upper level ringer. But you can’t take the ‘upper level’ away from me.
‡ I keep telling you: I am not talented. But I’m good at grind. Niall—who’s another grind—was saying in the car coming back tonight that he thinks what I’m calling talent is rare—mostly it’s grind. Maybe. But there are some, like Wild Robert and Edward, who just take to ringing, like ducks to water, like wasps to the jam-jar, like hellhounds to not eating.
‡‡ Don’t Try This at Home
‡‡‡ Meanwhile Niall wants us to ring Kent on handbells. Two lines at a time, right? With a bell in each hand. I’m supposed to have memorised the first two leads of either the treble-two or the five-tenor—so two-fifths of a plain course—by Thursday. Gaaaah.
§ If it happens before I have a chance to forget it again
§§ No, no! Not frantic! Crisp and precise! –This is why I’m mediocre and erratic.
§§§ The wrong shape of brain is true. I’ve spent the last several years building a new brain-lobe. Out of dog hair, spit, and obstinacy.
¤ A very surprised ringer
¤¤ Colin has said he’ll get me through Yorkshire. He promises. I think Yorkshire is approximately the top of the bottom rank of surprise, but I could be wrong. But he knows I like Yorkshire: it makes a very pretty noise. But you do have to ring it on eight bells. None of this working up gradually from six.
¤¤¤ I won’t say crisp and precise, exactly, but not too bad.
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