Soon, the dawn will come.įor now, down amongst the leaf litter, the dark bush crickets are still counting the seconds. Within this empty space between the trees, the golden sound rings pure and clear, though there's no one around to hear it. Summer beside the marina time.įrom over the fields beyond the edge of the forest, the bell of St Mary's strikes 4. A waterside place with sun-warmed railings for leaning into, where everything is there, and everything is happening, but in a more reflective, tide coming in and out, kind of way. It's the sort of place where one can go to just listen, and take in the atmosphere. Filling, then emptying, filling, then emptying, in slow, peaceful transitions. The aural ambience in the air around the marina pushes to, and fro, like the ever-changing water. Detonations from the firing range seven miles southeast on Foulness. At eleven minutes, six, soft edged, evenly spaced booms. Docked, distantly opposite the marina, machines relieve a bulk carrier of its consignment of timber. Mid-stream, a heavy-engined vessel labours against the out-going tide. Out on the open water, small craft on small journeys manoeuvre. And when the wind eases, crickets in the long grass discretely sing. Tidal water swells, and though smooth on the surface, slaps impatiently against the pontoons. To the ear though, it's a different story. This is the marina at Burnham-on-Crouch, Essex, where to the eye, on this hot summer day in August, everything looks still. So many boats moored up, waiting for someone to come down to sail them. These are the traces, the most elemental of aural fragments, the leftovers gathered at the edges of human hearing from the action of countless rolling tyres on fast asphalt roads, but that from here, filtered through so many trees and hedgerows, are safely and forgettably muffled beneath the horizon. And all the time, from everywhere and nowhere, the air continues to thrum with tiny, silken vibrations. Little birds, perched amongst the brambles, emit short, percussive sounds. A pheasant, its creaky call like an unoiled gate somewhere in the undergrowth. The tchack tchacks, of scattering jackdaws. Magpies, to bully in the high top branches. Gradually, with nobody around, the birds return. It's passage draws a slow, arching line, between the eastern and western skies. An old propeller plane hums proudly over. In the next field, hidden from view behind a line of trees, a tractor pulls a long wheeled and bladed contraption up and down. It echoes over the fields, a dry bark-like caw that spells the arrival of autumn. In the mid-distance, a flock of geese, slowly transiting the open sky. All around, the air thrums, with a feeling of wide open space. Waiting to be mown.Ī hedgerow, beside a field. Along the old bridleway, away from the grey noise of a cross-country road, quiet fields are revealed. Standing tall with motionless leaves, the trees are leaning into the warmth, letting their limbs soak up every available ounce of the sun's golden heat.