TRANSPORTED BY BELLS

Tonight, as on every Monday evening, this lifeless suburb is transformed for an hour or longer by the pealing of bells. The sound tumbles down triumphantly from the top of Harrow hill and when I hear it, especially on a warm-scented Spring night, I’m transfixed. Now the roar of traffic is subdued and you can imagine it’s the sound of breakers on the shore - it's similar. When I lived out in Buckinghamshire, I used to hear the same sound across the fields on misty summer mornings. It makes me want to come alive in a Medieval village, reminds me of Dick Whittington and Lazy Sunday Afternoon.

It’s one of the things that has been untarnished by time. (Funny that, while enjoyment from music I used to love can pale until it's not there at all.) If I leave England, I won’t be able to hear bells without pangs of longing.