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form of Ruth Sweet. Ruth offered the musical support that I needed. She picked me up and swept me westwards to Rhaglan. She said her handbell ringing group would accompany me. Now, for the first time, I was seriously cruising into the soothing green of Monmouthsire, and with my stuff in a Range Rover boot, to boot.
    â€œMy father always used to say that this was God’s own country,” Ruth told me, as we swooped between the neat hedges. “I worked as a teacher and my husband, who is in computers, had postings in southern Ireland and Florida. But as we came to retirement, you know, I had to come back.” She waved a hand in the direction of the misty ridge ahead. “You can see why.”
    â€œAnd are those the Black Mountains?” I asked, naming Welsh mountain ranges randomly.
    â€œNo, they are much further away. What we can see are the lower parts of the Brecon Beacons. That’s the Sugar Loaf Mountain over there. Abergavenny is just beyond it.”
    Coming from Essex, I loved this vision of “over the hills and far away”. Welsh vistas always provided a valley to drop into, a plain to cross or mountains to climb. In Essex the horizon tended to be flat, even and built over.
    The handbells had been discovered in a trunk in St Cadoc’s Church in Rhaglan, while the place was being decorated with flowers for a festival. There were two octaves of single bells on leather strap handles, many of which had worn away with age. Later it was established that they had been made in London near King’s Cross and, since the foundry had ceased to exist in 1852, they could certainly be declared “old”.
    The group decided to have the bells restored as a millennium project and then learned to play them. They took the name “The St Cadoc’s Millennium Chimes” and their very first performance was given by candlelight, because of a power cut. Since then they have taken on some experienced hand-ringing assistance and learned to play from notation. So this is what I was confronted with now – a score.
    We ate “cawl”, the Welsh soup of vegetables and lamb, and then we went through into Ruth’s front room. A large book was dumped in front of me and two bells were placed in my hands.
    â€œYou swing forward following the shape of a rugby ball,” I was told firmly. “You swing it out with a smooth movement. Flick… and back.”
    I didn’t want to say that it was a long time since I had handled a rugby ball. But I got the general idea: another accomplishment that I could perform, if I acted the part. I just had to pretend to be a handbell ringer and no doubt I would become one. I had to embrace the team spirit too. Despite all the beautifully made-up eyes watching me I was after all just two notes in a musical instrument.
    I extended my arm and swayed into it a bit, like a child overcome with music in the infants’ choir, and a sonorous “dong” rang around Ruth’s front room. Everybody applauded. Fair enough.
    Now all sixteen of us bent to our task. Reading the score was surely going to be more complex, but, luckily, it was a matter of “beats”. I was responsible for two notes. Each was clearly marked in dayglo colours on my sheet. As long as I could get with the rhythm and extend my arm on cue I would probably contribute. And with fifteen other experienced ringers to help I was in a good place. After all, I only had a choice of two notes. I just had to remember my right from my left. Mostly, I managed.
    Let me just say that, in the close confines of a suburban home in Rhaglan, a double octave of bells played by sixteen dedicated players can deliver a wondrous clamour of music. The bells rang out in clear, resonant notes and the vocals rumbled along somewhere in amongst them. Whether a slight residue of double “u”s, wrongly accented double “dd”s, false “th”s instead of “dd”s,