The strange case of the haunted bell.
I exit Bute Park and line up at the crossing. I am alone. As I cross, three people walk toward me. Passing the hind most of this group my bell mysteriously rings, untouched and unaided by me.
Cycling past the Crown court, the shared path is clear. The world is silent, save for the occasional ticking of my freewheel and the occasional car engine. It is strangely quiet for this time of day. Rounding the corner, a man in a long overcoat hurries forward, briefcase bouncing in his left hand. As we pass, my bell rings. My hands never left the bars.
Rolling toward the Big Sleep, a group of lads swagger along the pavement with an eye for mischief. They are overly aware of their surroundings. They take interest in everything and everyone. Slowing for the lights, I pass them and the bell loudly trings. Queue dark looks and the body language of confrontation.
My bell never rings of its own volition when the coast is clear. The bike is 41 years old. The bell I would guess, 20. What dark history have I inherited? I could take the bell off, yes, of course. But it is as much part of this bike as its Brooks saddle, its Dynamo lights and its splendid head badge. Besides…….Have you never seen the twilight zone?
Love my old Carlton. I Wish the bloody bell would pack in these shenanigans though. The haunted bell is depicted at top, its host, below. (You can imagine how bell hating dog walkers react to this 🙂