What lies within the tower is… a clock
to prevent birds from entering. The familiar chiming sounds, so beloved by all Alleynians, are produced by four iron hemisphere bells. Much like the clockwork a few floors below, numerous pipes and wires surround them. From here, one has a fantastic view of everything from the new Laboratory to the (rival) tower in Crystal Palace. Further research revealed more popular myths – that Ernest Shackleton was expelled for climbing the tower without permission – as well as some fascinating pieces of trivia: did you know that in 1964, a student crept up the tower and climbed out to smear hammer-and-sickle emblems on the wall? The patches are still visible today. Or that, at the end of the summer term in 1970, a group of boys broke the locks on the door and stole the winding-handle for the clock? The culprits are still at large. So even as we let go of some of the more exotic theories surrounding it, the historic clock tower, so central to the life of the College, still holds much to fascinate and entertain.
I determined to go to the top of the clock tower to reveal what is truly up there, once and for all. After donning my fluorescent jacket and helmet, I was ready to pass through the double-locked doors, and to explore this strange, secluded place. After a few weeks of waiting, Mr. Yeind kindly granted permission for the expedition. Apparently, if you’re still inside when the bells ring, you risk severe damage to your ears. This meant I had a 15-minute time slot to venture up and down – it was literally a race against time. The tower is divided into multiple floors, with each connected to the next by a ladder that seemed to stretch ever-upwards into the darkness. The ladders and floor had recently been replaced during a regeneration project; the old ones apparently presented a safety hazard. I had to climb to the second floor to reach the tower’s heart: the clock. Created by John Moore & Sons, it sits there, like a robotic toy, quietly rattling, whirring, and buzzing to itself. Scattered wires, pulleys, cogs, leavers and bevels all tick, creak and twitch intermittently. The clock is encased in woodwork, etched with generations of old boys’ names. Gas mantles that haven’t been used since the 1970s poke out at eye-level, whilst an iron-weighted pendulum dangles down, providing its life and energy. Treading carefully, one scales the final ladder to reach the trapdoor, which opens to reveal the bells at the summit. Once decorated in bird faeces, the area was ringed in mesh wire
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