Two days after Christmas, Wendy, Sue and I sat in the front room. Wendy was writing thank you notes, Sue was doing something on her phone and I was writing my second batch of Christmas cards and blaming their late departure on the Royal Mail, which was still on strike.

Wendy looked up. “I hear bells.”

“It’s the anti-biotics you’re on,” said Sue

Wendy opened the kitchen door. “No,” she said. “Those are bells.”

“They must be practicing,”

“But they always practice on Monday.”

“Well, Monday was Christmas, wasn’t it?”

“So, they’re practicing?” I asked. I pushed back my chair. “I’ve got to get up there.”

I took a swallow of the ever-present tea, grabbed my coat, got into my boots and went to the door.

“You’ve got a torch?” asked Wendy.

“I have my phone,” I said.

I knew where the bells were pulled in St Leonard’s because I had been up in the bell loft the summer of the 2016 fete. I thumped up the street; the bells were quiet and I was afraid I had missed them. But as I turned into dark churchyard, they began again:

I crept along the side of the church to the tower in the back where one lighted doorway spilled out into the night. I climbed the narrow spiral concrete steps to the ringing chamber and peered in the door. I had happened upon a group called the Axbridge Bell Ringers, a group of Somerset ringers who had spent the day traveling around Somerset, ringing church bells.

Axbridge Bell Ringers, Somerset

When they finished ringing the change, they invited me in. They let me watch and then, Gentle Reader, they let me ring a bell. The leader showed me where to hold the rope and how to pull. It takes a very light pull and you don’t pull far. It’s the uptake that can yank your arms out of their sockets. I got into a rhythm and pulled until I was declared a natural, a polite way of saying they were finished with indulging me.

I burst into house through the back door.

“They let me ring the bells!” I exclaimed, hopping on one foot to get my boot off.

“I thought they would,” said Wendy calmly.

The next morning Wendy ran me into Street where I caught the bus for Wells. First stop was Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe one of those old confectioneries that used to be in every London neighborhood and now you can’t find one anywhere. Rows and rows of jars with boiled sweets (hard candies): humbugs, acid drops (not what you think), aniseed balls, Kop Kops, rhubarb and custard, Army Navy drops, Yorkshire Mix (enormous lumps of different flavoured boiled sweets.) I bought a small amount of every form of black liquorice on the shelves.

I was peckish and did not want to dine on my cache of sweets; I was hoping—incredibly—that they would make it to Seattle. (Most of them did). So I went into a pub called The Crown. The very second I sat down with a menu, music began blasting out of speakers. This happens to me all the time. They see me coming, they wait until I am settled and then crank up the music. I walked out.

I tried the Market Place Café across the way. It was quiet except for low talking. “You’re not going to turn on loud music the minute I sit down, are you?”

The young man at the counter laughed. “We don’t play music at all,” he said.

“Is there a wifi password?” I asked.

“We don’t have wifi.”

This was my kind of place. No loud music and no wifi. I took note of the complete lack of pretention. On my table was a jar with sprigs wintergreen, snowberries and a candy cane.  I enjoyed my weak tea and excellent squash soup and relaxed.

I went into the Roly Fudge Shop to gather ammunition for an on-going argument I’d been having with Sue and Wendy about chocolate versus chocolate flavored sweets. They call fudge a chocolate-flavoured (spelt that way) sweet whereas something like a Cadbury chocolate bar is chocolate. (Actually what they call fudge is not even chocolate; it’s penuche but never mind.)

In the Roly Fudge Shop, Fiona explained that a chocolate-flavoured sweet is something that probably starts with butter and sugar and has chocolate added to it.

“But it’s real chocolate that’s added, isn’t it? I mean it’s still chocolate.”

“Well, yeeesss.” But she was doubtful.

Then I realized what was bothering me. “In America when we say something is chocolate-flavored, it usually means some kind of synthetic flavoring has been used, not the real thing.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve heard that.” Both Fiona’s and her assistant’s heads bobbed.

“All right then,” I thought.

I am familiar enough with Wells– having been there half a dozen times—that I know some of the cats. However I hadn’t met Basil who was parked in the middle of the entrance to Wells Cathedral posing for photographs and making everyone walk around him. The woman at reception told me that he lived about a block away and came in every morning to be fussed over. Until recently, his owner had no idea that Basil was the new cathedral cat, the former one having departed this life.

Basil

Wells Cathedral

The next day, I was back in Wells, courtesy of Wendy and Sue who both had appointments there. We had lunch at the excellent Market Place café where I had the excellent minty pea soup.

I had noticed the day before that an older couple had ordered the same squash soup that I had and it seemed as though they had gotten a bowl whereas I had gotten a cup. So this time I asked for a bowl of soup.

“There’s just the one size,” the server said.

“But that couple behind me had big bowls yesterday.”

I didn’t realize it at first but everyone froze. Remember in a previous post when I said that nothing about Americans seem to surprise the British? (I just can’t speak for what they tell their families at night.) The server explained that there were two different styles of bowl but they were all the same portion size. I thought I was only trying to figure out what was available and how I could get a big bowl of soup. After Wendy told me she was a little shocked I decided I had put it too bluntly.

Beaten but unbowed, when Sue and Wendy left for their appointments, I carried my American-ness next door to the Roly Fudge Shop where I asked Fiona if I could video her explaining the difference between chocolate and chocolate-flavoured sweets to play for my cousins.

“They said the same thing you did,” I told her. “But you were so much more polite about it.”

Fiona was game. (She was young.)

“Thank you,” I said when we finished the interview and I clicked off the record button. “They are going to love that.”

The Cathedral gift shop had been closed the day before so I went back today. Who should I find holding court in the gift shop but Basil? Actually he was just in the way but I expect a lot of monarchs have been like that.

Basil Again

Sue called to say they were just parking and to meet them at Boots. From there we went to a Café Nero for “a proper cup of tea.”  The cafe was quiet except for the stereo coughing of Wendy and Sue. I told them I had a video interview for them to hear. I clicked play and we all heard “They are going to love that.” The End. I hadn’t actually begun the recording until the interview was over.

“Well done,” they said.

We walked back to the car as Christmas lights began appearing. Wells is a lovely little town and looked pretty in the twinkling twilight.

More observations of Wells: