The Bells. The Bells.

About 45 years ago (at this time of year) we experienced one of the worst night time storms that I've ever known.

Thunder was set to Mark 11, there were about 50 flashes of lightning per second, and the rain fell in fist-sized lumps. Add 300 kph winds; and you'll get a rough idea.

Lady Magnon and I were clinging onto the bed-head, desperately hoping it would soon pass; the children were fast asleep.

At about 2 am, when the storm was at its worst, I suddenly heard the church bells start to ring. In those days they were still rung by hand, so this wasn't an electrical fault. It sounded to me like someone was calling for help.

I pulled on some clothes, ran to my old blue 2CV, and drove hot-tyre the 2 kms up to the church. I parked as close as I could to the open entry door.

Inside, tugging at a long rope, I found an elderly villager, cigarette in mouth, happily playing his one note tune.

I asked him what was the problem. 'Nothing' he replied; and explained that the sound of bells disperses any hail that might be around. He was thinking of his vines (probably having read Chevallier's 'Clochemerle').

So, with no maiden in distress, child down a well, or injuries caused by lightning, I returned home cold and sodden. Superstition had won the day, and I had learned a little more about what curiosities  to expect from my new dinky little village.