I have loved it all year, of course, when it tolls every hour (twice, in case you lost count the first time - Sablet is that kind of village) and every half hour when it whispers a kind of "Yes, the day's passing, but slowly - no rush. Don't rush." It's ringing five as I write this and I wonder if I will be able to recall the exact warm note and tone of the bell when I'm finally back home again. I'd record it, but knowing that it was only recorded would be too sad to bear.
The only thing we can possibly do, then, is come back to hear it again.
It's the loveliest church I've ever been in, and I've been in some churches. Built in two centuries - the 12th and 14th - it is smaller than some. It is just the right size, in fact; and so bright, with the well-worn floor and the thick, thick walls that are full of the whispers of calm and cool and silence.
A beautiful place
Next Book (not New Book, but the one after) is going to be set in a village in France, with just such a church as this - and it will be funny and bright and full of love and laughter.