I have swapped the sounds of the city for the sounds of the country – replacing the roar of cars and planes that blot out all other sounds, with the sweet song of birds. In fact it is quite hard to distinguish the different bird melodies as there are so many tunes converging into a gentle, dis-jointed surround-sound symphony, constantly moving and lilting as the birds fly and perch on this bush, then that tree, then over there again: the occasional klaxon- call of the pheasant, the caw caw of the community of rooks high in the trees, the high-pitched trilling of great tits and finches, the new sound of the early arrived migrant chiff chaff, the click-click-whistle of the long tail tits nesting in the yonder hedge, and the cackling laughter of the green wookpecker.
I hear the occasional hollow clip clop of horses hooves on the lane and the screeching dragon rounding the wooded bank, huffing and puffing as it pulls its weight onwards. And as the wind picks up, there are waves of sound passing through the yet-unleafed trees, before ebbing away and rolling in again.
[Thanks to Dad for the photo of the green woodpecker and of 44422 and 34070 locomotives on the West Somerset Railway]