Havant Ringers

16/03/2026

A lovely insight into what we do...

THE LITTLE JOHN CONVERSATION
(or: The Mathematics of Bell Ringing)

It was one of those steady weekday evenings in The Little John when the pub had reached that agreeable balance between conversation and quiet. The television above the bar was showing football to three people who weren’t watching it, the fire was doing its best to look cheerful, and the regulars had begun the gentle drift into subjects that nobody had planned but everyone seemed willing to pursue.

Horse Palmer was already installed at his usual table, leaning back in the relaxed manner of a man who regarded furniture as an optional suggestion rather than a strict instruction. Alan Dobbs arrived from the bar with two pints and the quiet dignity of someone who had successfully negotiated the queue.

“Evening, Horse.”

“Dobbs.”

Dobbs placed the pints on the table.

“Thought you might be getting thirsty.”

“Good man.”

They sat for a moment in companionable silence. Then the door of the pub opened and three people entered together: Maureen Clapperton, the Tower Captain of St Faithful’s bell ringers, followed by two members of the band who still had that slightly wind-blown appearance peculiar to people who have recently been hauling ropes up a medieval tower.

Maureen spotted Dobbs and Horse immediately. “Evening, gentlemen.”

“Maureen,” said Dobbs politely.

“Tower practice done then?” said Horse.

Maureen nodded, removing her coat with the brisk competence of someone used to managing ropes, people and ancient mechanisms all at once. “Not bad, apart from one broken rope," she said, laying the evidence on the table. "Very satisfactory practice until then. We finally got the new recruit through Plain Bob Doubles without incident.”

Horse blinked. “Is that English?”

Dobbs leaned forward with mild curiosity.

“I’ve always wondered how all that works,” he said. “From the outside it just sounds like… bells.”

Maureen smiled the slightly patient smile of someone about to explain something she had explained many times before. “Well, that’s a common misunderstanding. Bell ringing isn’t simply ringing bells. It’s a mathematical sequence.”

Horse looked faintly delighted. “A mathematical sequence?”

“Yes,” said Maureen firmly. “Change ringing is based on permutations. Each bell rings in a different order according to a precise pattern.”

Dobbs nodded slowly, as though absorbing something complicated but admirable.

“So you’re saying that the bells aren’t random.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Maureen. “The patterns are carefully designed. Tonight we were ringing a method called Plain Bob Doubles. Six bells, multiple changes for bells one to five. Very elegant structure.”

Horse took a sip of his pint and considered this.

“So what you’re telling me… is that up in that tower… you’re solving complicated mathematical problems.”

“In a sense, yes.”

“With ropes.”

Maureen hesitated very slightly.

“Well… yes.”

Horse leaned back in his chair and looked deeply impressed.

“That,” he said, “is the most English thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Dobbs chuckled. “I did once climb the tower during practice,” he said. “Nearly got concussed by a bell rope.”

“That will happen if you stand in the wrong place,” said Maureen calmly.

“Or the right place at the wrong time,” added one of the ringers.

Horse shook his head in admiration.

“So let me get this straight. You lot climb up a medieval tower, pull ropes attached to enormous bits of metal, and produce… algebra.”

“Permutations,” corrected Maureen.

“Permutations.”

“And if we get it wrong,” said the other ringer cheerfully, “everyone in the village hears about it.”

Dobbs looked thoughtful.

“I always assumed bell ringing was mostly instinct.”

Maureen’s expression suggested that instinct played approximately the same role as luck in a space launch.

“No. Timing. Memory. Precision. And teamwork.”

Horse nodded slowly. “Well that explains why it sounds like absolute chaos to me.”

Maureen laughed. “It only sounds like chaos if you don’t know the method.”

Horse gestured broadly with his pint. “That’s true of quite a lot of church life, actually.”

At this point the pub door opened again and Rev Tim Keen appeared, looking faintly tired but cheerful in the way of someone who had just completed a long day of parish duties and was now in search of quiet refreshment.

“Evening all.”

“Vicar,” said Dobbs.

Tim joined them with a pint. “What’s the subject tonight?”

“Bell ringing,” said Horse.

Tim nodded.

“Ah. One of the most complex art forms ever invented by English people with access to ropes.”

Maureen beamed. “Thank you, Vicar.”

Horse turned to Tim. “They’ve been explaining that what happens in that tower is basically advanced mathematics.”

Tim considered this carefully. “That’s about right.”

Horse frowned thoughtfully. “So why does it sometimes sound like the bells are fighting each other?”

Maureen sighed. “That,” she said, “is when someone forgets where they are in the sequence.”

Dobbs leaned forward. “And what happens then?”

Maureen took a slow sip of her drink. “Then,” she said calmly, “everyone pretends it was intentional and carries on.”

There was a short silence.

Horse raised his pint. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “that also explains quite a lot about church life.”

The table nodded in complete agreement.

---

St Faithful’s is fictional. The affection is real.

Books by Canon Tom Kennar (including 3 volumes of 'The Parish Life' about St Faithful’s and our first novel) are available in print and e-book. St Faithful's merchandise is also available online. See https://tinyurl.com/4k9jtpbe for more about both.

AI may assist with these posts. The drafting and publishing responsibility is entirely human.

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01/03/2026

Hmmm...striking competions. Should we?

STRIKING SUCCESS: WE DIDN'T LOSE!

A report for the parish magazine thingy. On the computer.

This is Maureen Clapperton, Tower Captain, reporting on last week’s Bell Ringing Competition, held this year in the picturesque, windswept, and frankly over-confident village of Deep Snoring.

We travelled 63.7 miles. I know this because I measured it. Twice. Once on Google Maps and once by the number of times Trevor asked “Are we nearly there yet?” from the back seat. Precision matters in ringing. It also matters in journeys. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably a handbell ringer.

We arrived early. Too early. Which meant standing outside the tower in the cold, pretending not to judge the other bands while absolutely judging the other bands. There was the usual lot:
– the band who all wear matching fleeces and smile far too much
– the band who claim they haven’t practised but somehow sound like angels
– and the band who warm up by loudly explaining how judging OUGHT to be done

We, of course, were calm, dignified, and quietly terrified.

The tower itself was… character-forming. Narrow stairs. A rope guide that squeaked like a distressed hamster. Bells with opinions. One of them (the 6, I won’t name names) had clearly decided it was having an off day and wished to take everyone with it.

Judges arrived. Clipboards out. Faces on. No warmth. No mercy. These are people who can hear a fractional late handstroke from fifty yards and will remember it until the Day of Judgement.

We drew our ringing order. There was a discussion. By “discussion” I mean a tense exchange of glances followed by me saying, “No. We are NOT changing it now.” Leadership is lonely.

Up we went.

Ropes in hand. Silence. That very particular silence where you can hear your own doubts echoing off the stonework.

And then — off.

Was it perfect? Absolutely not.
Was it controlled? Mostly.
Did the treble drift once and immediately correct itself like a repentant sinner? Yes.
Did someone forget a dodge and then heroically remember it half a second later? Also yes.

But — and this matters — we rang like a band. We listened. We recovered. We did not panic. Nobody swore out loud. Nobody rang rounds when we were meant to be doing method. These are all victories.

Coming down the tower afterwards, morale was… cautiously hopeful. We knew we hadn’t disgraced ourselves. Which, historically, is not a given.

Lunch was taken in the village hall. Sandwiches curling at the edges. Tea of variable strength. A home-made cake which everyone praised but nobody finished. Standard competition fare.

Then the results.

Now. This is the important bit.

Out of TWELVE bands, we came…

SECOND FROM THE BOTTOM.

Which is to say:
– not bottom
– not embarrassing
– not a warning sign to the Guild

We beat someone. Quite decisively, in fact. And the judges’ comments included the phrase “good recovery,” which in bell ringing terms is practically a standing ovation.

So yes. We did not win.
But we climbed.
We improved.
We survived.

And next year, Deep Snoring will tremble slightly more when St Faithful’s arrives — probably still early, probably still with Trevor asking questions, but with confidence.

Ringing is not about glory. It is about discipline, trust, and doing something difficult together without throwing a rope at anyone.

Second from the bottom?

I’ll take it.

And we’re coming for mid-table next year.

- Maureen Clapperton
Tower Captain
"Yes, I've heard that one"
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Disclaimer: St Faithful’s is a fictional parish, imagined by a real-life parish priest. It reflects familiar church cultures, observed with affection and humour, in the belief that theology still has something to say. Images are created with the assistance of Artie Fishal, who is very intelligent.

We recommend books by Canon Tom Kennar, including his recent publication of some of OUR Facebook posts (called 'The Parish life') which can be purchased (by 'print and deliver' service) at www.books.by/tom-kennar. Or search for 'Tom Kennar' on Amazon (especially for Kindle editions)

01/03/2026

There's some perceptive truth in this post from the parish of St Faithful's, Havnot!

RINGING PRACTICE AT ST FAITHFUL'S

I'm Maureen Clapperton, and yes I've heard all the jokes. And, so far as bell ringing is concerned, I have Seen Things.

Judith M. Crowther has cajolled me (or did she threaten me?) into giving readers of our Facebook site an insight into HOW we go about producing heavenly peals of happy bells. Sometimes. (Should that be spelled 'peels'? I'm never quite sure. But I'm a bell ringer, not a bloody English teacher.)

Right. Bells. Thursday night. Deep breath.

Anyone who imagines that bellringing practice is a serene and mildly ecclesiastical affair — a sort of sonic yoga, conducted by people in cardigans who say “after you” a lot — has quite clearly never been to a ringing chamber at about 7.47pm on a damp Thursday in February.

Last Thursday’s practice began, as they all do, with optimism. By 7.30pm the bells were warm, the ropes were behaving themselves, and I was feeling quietly confident that we might even attempt something ambitious. (This was my first mistake.)

Within ten minutes, we had experienced the first of the evening’s incidents.

There is always, in every band, someone whose rope develops what can only be described as a personal vendetta. On this occasion it was the treble, which decided to acquire an extra foot of tail end, seemingly overnight, and proceeded to wrap itself lovingly around Nigel’s ankle. Nigel rang on bravely for almost half a change before performing what future historians may call “the slowest and least dignified pirouette in ringing history”. No bones broken. Pride alone bruised.

Shortly thereafter, the bells themselves joined in.

For reasons known only to gravity and Satan, the fourth bell developed a pronounced bounce at handstroke. This resulted in Janet being lifted approximately five inches off the floor on every pull, like a devotional pogo stick. Janet insists this has never happened before. The bell, I suspect, disagrees.

At this point we paused, as all good ringers do, to discuss theory.

This involved six people talking at once, two people re-ringing imaginary methods on their thighs, and one person (new learner, bless him) asking whether the bells were “supposed to feel quite so… alive”. We reassured him that yes, they are. And that fear is part of the journey.

Practice resumed.

We attempted a plain course. It lasted approximately fourteen changes before collapsing into what can only be described as a free-jazz interpretation of change ringing. Somewhere in the chaos, the tenor rang a perfectly respectable bell — just not in the same universe as the others. Timing, as we gently reminded him, is a communal activity.

Then came the noises.

Bell towers are never silent places, but last Thursday introduced a new sound to the canon: a sort of slow, mournful squeak. Investigation revealed that the radiator, offended by our enthusiasm, had decided to complain audibly. This was briefly mistaken for a mechanical fault in the bells, causing unnecessary panic and one person to cross themselves, despite not being Roman Catholic.

Refreshments were called for.

Tea was poured. Biscuits were distributed. Someone had brought chocolate Hobnobs, which immediately raised the emotional temperature of the room and caused a short but intense moral debate about whether ringing practice counts as “exercise”. (It absolutely does.)

Fortified, we tried again.

And then — the highlight.

During rounds, a mobile phone began ringing loudly from someone’s coat pocket. Unfortunately, the ringtone was the opening bars of a tune called Hells Bells, by an Australian rock band with something electrical in their name). (Typical bell ringer's phone - it's either rocking Aussies, or the Westminster Chimes. Occasionally the last 3 minutes of Mike Oldfield's classic Tubulating Bells). The resulting confusion caused three people to look accusingly at the bells, one person to attempt to ring faster to “catch up”, and me to age visibly.

We finished, eventually, on something approaching a good note. The bells settled. The ropes didn't snap (which is always a cause of relief). The band remembered why we do this: not for perfection, but for the sheer, slightly mad joy of making a complicated noise together and occasionally getting it right.

As Tower Captain, I remind myself that bellringing is not about control. It is about trust, teamwork, and the willingness to laugh when gravity, physics, and your own left hand conspire against you. And it also has the added bonus, most of the time, of calling muggles to worship God downstairs. For me, my worship is done at the end of a rope. (Oh, you know what I mean).

Same time next Thursday.

I’ll bring extra biscuits.

-Maureen Clapperton
Tower Captain

A note from Judith: I didn't understand any of this. But they seem happy.
-Judith M. Crowther
Parish Administrator
'Fanning the flames in the church' (well, if Rev Sandy can have a motto, why can't I?)
------
Disclaimer: St Faithful’s is a fictional parish, imagined by a real-life parish priest. It reflects familiar church cultures, observed with affection and humour, in the belief that theology still has something to say. Images are created with the assistance of Artie Fishal, who is very intelligent.

We recommend books by Canon Tom Kennar, including his recent publication of some of OUR Facebook posts (called 'The Parish life') which can be purchased (by 'print and deliver' service) at www.books.by/tom-kennar. Or search for 'Tom Kennar' on Amazon (especially for Kindle editions)

01/03/2026

We're following St Faithful's, Havnot, who clearly have a very ambitious ringing band!

OH WHAT A LOVELY WAR...

The Little John was not, by any stretch of the imagination, peaceful. The snug door didn’t quite shut properly, which meant every successful dart in the public bar landed in their conversation like incoming artillery.

“TREBLE TWENTY!”

A cheer. A crash. Someone shouting, “Get in!”

Horse flinched and glowered at the door to the bar. “They’re celebrating like they’ve liberated Belgium.”

Outside, the bells of St Faithful’s began practice with the subtlety of falling scaffolding.

Dobbs froze mid-sip.

“That,” he said tightly, “was not Stedman.”

Clarence appeared, sliding a suspiciously pale pint in front of Perry.

“Try the new Aussie lager, Churchwarden," he said encouraginly. "Cold. Refreshing. Modern.”

Perry stared at it as though it had insulted the monarchy.

“Beer,” Perry said slowly, “should not be refrigerated to the point of tastebud collapse.”

“It’s what people want,” Clarence shot back.

“People,” Perry replied, “also want reality television.”

Sally choked on her drink.

There was another eruption from the bar.

Horse stood halfway up. “Right. That’s it. I’m going in.”

“You are not,” Sandy said calmly, placing a firm hand on his sleeve.

“I’m going to tell them that if they don’t lower the volume I shall personally demonstrate what a proper bullseye looks like.”

“You don’t play darts.”

“I shall improvise.”

Outside, the bells attempted something ambitious with a result not unlike a tray of cutlery being hurled at a wall.

It was Dobbs' turn to rise to his feet. “I’m having a word.”

“With whom?” Tim asked mildly.

“With physics.”

He marched out of the pub. The others watched through the window as he shook an angry fist in the general direction of the tower.

From inside, through the half-open window, they heard him shout, “ROUND! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO RING IT AROUND. ONE AFTER ANOTHER!”

Perry, meanwhile, had not taken his eyes off the lager. He took a tentative sip.

“This,” he said to Clarence, who was still hovering defensively, “is an offence against civilisation. Proper English ale is room temperature. It breathes. It has depth.”

“It’s flat,” Clarence retorted.

“It is not flat. It is contemplative.”

Tim leaned back, watching the escalating theatre with a faint smile.

Sally folded her arms. “Look at us.”

“What?” Horse demanded.

“We’re furious about bells. Furious about darts. Furious about beer temperature.”

Another roar from the bar. Clarence headed off to try and negotiate an armistice.

Dobbs re-entered, his remaining tufts of hair slightly windblown.

“They’re attempting Grandsire Doubles,” he announced, as if reporting troop movements. “With extreme optimism.”

Horse pointed toward the bar. “And THEY are attempting volume-based dominance.”

Perry gestured at the lager. “And this establishment is attempting cultural vandalism.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Shall we declare war?”

There was a pause.

Horse looked thoughtful. “Could we justify it, theologically speaking?”

Sandy smiled faintly. “Ah. There it is.”

Outside, the bells clashed again, like a collapsing pile of hub-caps. Inside, a dart thudded emphatically into a board. Horse huffed. Dobbs muttered. Perry glowered into his chilled pint as though it embodied the decline of civilisation.

“When,” Sally said slowly, “is force justified? Because we all feel it right now. That urge to storm the bar. Silence the bells. Deport the lager.”

“I never said deport,” Perry objected. “Quarantine would be quite sufficient.”

Tim folded his hands.

“Christian thinkers have wrestled with this for centuries. Not about bells or beer — though possibly about beer — but about actual war.”

Sandy nodded. “The tradition says violence might be morally permissible… but only under strict conditions.”

“Such as?” Dobbs asked, sitting again but still bristling faintly.

“Just cause,” Tim said. “Legitimate authority. Last resort. Proportionality. A reasonable chance of success.”

Horse considered this. “So I cannot invade the darts team simply because they’re loud.”

“No.”

“Have we exhausted peaceful options?”

“You haven’t tried asking politely,” Sandy pointed out.

Horse deflated slightly.

Perry sniffed. “And storming the bar over chilled lager would fail on proportionality.”

“Dramatically,” Sally said.

Outside, the bells steadied — just for a moment — into something almost coherent.

Dobbs softened visibly.

“The point,” Sandy said, raising her voice slightly over another cheer, “is that Just War theory tries to restrain violence. It assumes conflict is tragic. It sets moral boundaries.”

Tim nodded. “It says you cannot simply act because you are annoyed, or offended, or even harmed. There must be serious cause. And even then, the response must be limited.”

Horse slumped back into his chair.

“So most of my impulses are unjust.”

“Yes,” said Sally.

“Comforting.”

Clarence reappeared, arms folded.

“You lot discussing theology again?”

“Conflict,” Tim replied.

"Same thing, really"

Clarence gestured toward the bells. “Well, if you don't want conflict, tell that lot to pack it in. It’s costing me customers.”

Dobbs bristled.

“They were here before your jukebox.”

“And before your evil beer-refrigeration machine,” Perry added.

Clarence looked as though he might say something regrettable, then thought better of it and retreated.

The snug quietened slightly. The darts match appeared to have reached its climax.

Tim looked round the table.

“Maybe Just War theory begins with recognising the heat in ourselves. The instinct to dominate. To silence. To win.”

“And then,” Sandy said, “asking whether we are defending something genuinely vulnerable… or merely our preferences.”

Dobbs sighed. “The bells matter.”

“They do,” Sally agreed. “But so does sleep.”

“And so does community,” Tim added. “Which is harder to rebuild than a dartboard.”

Outside, the bells finally found a rhythm.

Inside, the bar noise dipped into ordinary pub hum.

Horse glanced at the door to the public bar.

“I suppose,” he said reluctantly, “it would be unjust to demonstrate my bullseye technique now?”

“Very,” Sandy replied.

Perry took a cautious sip of the lager, grimaced, and set it down.

“Some battles,” he said gravely, “must be endured rather than fought.”

Dobbs looked toward the tower.

“Last resort,” he murmured.

Tim smiled.

In the snug of The Little John — beside the bells, beneath the noise, amid lager and indignation — no war was declared.

Which, given human history, was not nothing.

----
Disclaimer

St Faithful’s is fictional. The affection is real.

Books by Canon Tom Kennar (including 3 volumes of 'The Parish Life' about St Faithful’s) are available in print and e-book. Merchandise is available online - with free shipping until midnight on Sunday March 1st. See https://tinyurl.com/4k9jtpbe for more about both books and merch.

AI may assist with these posts. The drafting and publishing responsibility is entirely human.

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09/12/2024

27/08/2024

So...here's a thing. Oasis may be reforming, but they are not playing until next year. I've decided to do something THIS year - in aid of the beautiful little medieval church of St Michael's Chalton. It's satisfying to help out another church in our deanery from time to time. Tell your friends - and hot-foot it to Chalton on the 12th of October. Advance booking is advised - see poster for how.

13/08/2024

This one of those good news/bad news posts...

The FANTASTIC news is that after a recent act of incredible generosity from one of our parishioners (and the dedicated, sustained, giving of so many more over recent years) we have the funds to build our accessible toilet! Hooray and Praise the Lord!

The MORE CHALLENGING news is that our builder wants to start straight away - to get the project finished in time for Christmas - so he'll be digging up the church from next Monday. This has a lot of knock-on consequences...including for our Summer Fayre (see the information below).

See - good news and bad news. But all very exciting in the long term!

10/08/2024

Next week, we're looking forward to hearing the amazing, local folk music MASTER, Simon Cattermole!

27/06/2024

A busy weekend is ahead!

SATURDAY 29 JUNE

The Union Flag will be flying above St. Faith's Church in Havant for Armed Forces Day. It is a chance to show your support for the men and women who make up the Armed Forces community: from currently serving personnel to Service families, veterans and cadets.

The bells will ring a quarter peal (45 minutes) at 10am for Armed Forces Day and for those being ordained deacon at Portsmouth Cathedral (Sandra Haggan, Elizabeth Pearn, Deb Henning-Vears and Emily Ashworth who are known to the St. Faith's community).

The bells will also ring before and after the wedding at 2.30pm of Liam Parker and Tanya Bromley.

29/12/2023

Join us on new year's eve, as we ring out the old year (with half muffled bells) and then ring in the new. At the same time, a watch night service of Holy Communion will be taking place below us, from 1130pm, led by Canon Tom. After the service, we will gather, ringers and worshippers, for a glass of something bubbly, to mark the turning of the year. YOU would be most welcome to join us!