Thirty miles of church-hells chiming, thirty miles of vineyards climbing, over corrugated hillsides; tidy lines of serried gold. Thirty years since last I saw them but the autumn leaves they wore then still reﬂect in recollections that grow clearer growing old. Stone-grey church-towers standing squarely every mile or so and rarely could I find an untolled furlong as the autumn morning swelled with the sound of ringing steeples greeting gatherings of people summoned in through slanting sunlight by the beckoning of bells. Tidy, too, the gravelled churchyards where the tombstones, like the vineyards, keep a neat, Silesian order in their pine-tree bordered plots, hearing Martin Luther’s virtues rolling out from bluestone churches over granite-carved inscriptions that begin “Hier ruht’in Gott”. On some future Sunday morning when I stand by April awnings that the vineyards wear, I wonder if the bells will seem as near as those sounds in inner hearing or the light on leaves appearing undiminished by a distance dimmed by nearly thirty years.