After the picnic we visited the church, clambering down a bank and into the nave. A bus of tourists incoming, their accents fatally nasal, whisked us up past the choir loft to the bell tower where middle aged mid-westerners without a whisper of warning started humming. No tune forming, only a constant never-pitch-perfect but nevertheless perfect pitch that stopped commonly. Lost in those years, suddenly memory clears with the discovery We recovered our breath only back in the sanctuary.