If your company produced products so long-lived that they’re known around the world—the Liberty Bell, for example, or Big Ben—of course you’d have a certain amount of pride. That’s the case with Alan Hughes, co-owner of London’s Whitechapel Bell Foundry.
But there’s also some frustration, because his bells are so well-made that they almost never need to be replaced. In a way, the bells are tolling for his company.
“Businesses are always thinking about expansion,” says Hughes, “but what we’re concerned with is how to manage contraction, in a sensible and efficient way.”
The country’s oldest manufacturer, Whitechapel Bell Foundry is also the only bell foundry left in the U.K. The foundry has been in Hughes’ family for four generations now, but its full history dates back to 1570.
The foundry sits at the end of the street I once lived on for five years. The Georgian-era storefront in the East End neighborhood of Whitechapel looks like it’s permanently closed, but sometimes I would peek through the cracks of the workshop gates in the back to see rows and rows of bells, some as big as myself. Only halfway through my time on my former street did I discover that this little place had produced most of the bells whose names I knew.
The problem the foundry faces is that, while most products nowadays are marketed by artificially shortening their expiration date, like fast fashion or iPhones, their bells have only increased in longevity in what was already a lengthy lifespan.
“Up to 60 or 70 years ago, people still replaced their bells whenever they felt like it,” Hughes explains. “But the conservation lobby and the improved quality of bells are preventing people from buying new ones. A century ago, we produced five to six sets of church bells a month. Now it’s only three to four per year.”
Hughes says it reminds him of the car market during the 1960s, when car ownership seemed to be coming close to a saturation point. So the industry convinced families that they should buy a second car, and then a third one. “And now, even dogs have their own cars.”
But you can’t talk people into buying more bells, especially the behemoths that Whitechapel produces.
“I’m not a businessman,” Hughes says, “but I do know that when people ask for something, it’s a good idea to give it to them.”
Hughes began charging for tours through the foundry, which started started during his father’s time running the company. These have become so popular that tickets are sold out up a year in advance. When he noticed that people wanted souvenirs of their visit, he set up a little shop. He remembers his first customer clearly.
“He was Japanese and bought 250 pencils,” says Hughes. “We didn’t know why he bought so many, and the only answer we could come up with was that he could lose 249, but he’d still have a pencil.”
The foundry now only employs 24 people, far less than the 48 workers it had when Hughes took over the business. On top of that, neither of Hughes’ daughters seems interested in taking over the business. One is a manager at a supermarket chain, while the other is a concert pianist.
When I ask Hughes whether he’s worried about the foundry’s demise, he gets philosophical.
“If I had to name my biggest achievement, it would be survival,” he says. “We’re the only bell foundry left in the U.K. In a way, even though we’ve decreased in output, our market share has grown.”
Growing up in this day and age makes it easy to forget about the virtues of longevity. The only things I buy that last me a long time are canned food and dried beans. My other possessions are all perishable, replaced with every new season, mood, or paycheck.
“Nothing lasts forever,” Hughes admits. “But even if we’re to close tomorrow, it’s still not bad, is it? Which other company has lasted 470 years?”
Photos credit: Neil Thomas