Radio Lento podcast

Jackdaws and flooded winterbournes - watery emptiness

On the edge of the Bayford Pinetum in rural Hertfordshire, in view of the surrounding farmland, there's a young birch tree, growing in a secluded hollow. In early September the foliage here was humming with late season bees, feeding on ivy. Now in late October, the land is rain sodden and the dell is flooded waist deep. Rooks caw and kaah, from high in the treetops. The air is alive with the watery sibilances of rushing winterbournes. Flocks of jackdaws tchack tchack over the claggy brown fields, ploughed over since our last visit. The occasional train slides smoothly through the forest, on the line that links Hertford North with London. Propeller planes hum over on their weekend flights. Jets pass, muffled in the cloud. High leaves rustle gently in the cool autumn breezes. They haven't got long to fall.

Tawny echoes in the cathedral of trees (sleep safe)

Night has fallen over the Forest of Dean. In the clearing where we left the microphones, the cool nocturnal air has begun to echo with the calls of tawny owls. Cars passing on the distant forest road hush like banks of wind through the high tree tops. Down on the forest floor, hidden beneath the twisted vines, a stream is revealed. Its watery eddies sparkle brightly through the darkness, reflected and amplified by the broad leaves above. When there's no light in a forest everything sounds different. Sharper. What was close, is closer. Reverberant. What was far, is farther away. But between the echoes, there is silence. Between the tree trunks, branches crack, a creature squeals, a distant dog barks. Murmurs of murmurs seep through from the outside world. Falling softly on the gnarly bark of this ancient tree, in this giant forest where the owls live, these are the sounds of the night-time passing.

Rain in Abney Park

Tucked behind buildings, encircled by busy roads in the borough of Hackney in London, there's Abney Park. It's one of the 'Magnificent Seven' cemeteries of London with marble-topped tombs half hidden by vines. It is a designated nature reserve protecting a rich ecological environment. Locals nip in, to take their dogs for a walk, to clear their heads and to get lost on its winding paths. It's home too for a rich variety of birds, including green parrots. Planted as an exotic arboretum in 1840, there are around 200 trees, some still remain from that first planting. It's a mild October day, and the rain is falling. Everything is being drenched. After a long time walking under dripping canopy we find a spot for the microphones. Set back from the path it's a small leafy hollow, bisected by a diagonal spur growing out of an old oak. The rain is falling heavier now, sifting down in waves down through the branches, pattering onto millions of waxy leaves. These old trees are bathing in it. They're pushing away the noise of the city, and sheltering the tranquillity of Abney Park under their boughs. 

Wind over the Bridgemarsh Marina on the Dengie Peninsula

While we went off to explore along the river banks of the Crouch, we left the microphones behind to record on the windowsill of a derelict shed just inside the deserted marina on the leeside of the prevailing wind. As time passes, yacht masts set shaking in the wind ring out, some like bells. Taught lines whistle. Restless halyards knock and settle. A redshank, some cawing  crows, impatient gulls and a curlew. There are starlings too, perched on the power lines. A late foraging bee, a propeller plane, and some distant motorbikes on the B1010. It's afternoon, but a cockerel makes it sound like morning. Two dogs bark distantly while two men tinker in a nearby shed beside some dry-landed rocked-over boats. A jet plane softly rumbles out to sea, far above the marina. There's a flag near to this shed. In the wind it is restless, flapping and furling and unfurling.

Suffolk Wood part 5 - the hour to 1am (sleep safe)

Night has come, and owls, to clear the slate. In this wonderful old wood the August air is still and filled with brightly chirping crickets. A propeller plane hums into the Eastern sky, its sound mixes with the soft rumble of a high-altitude jet, and dissolves away over the wood. The feeling of peace is mesmerising. Hidden in their treetop nests, countless wood pigeons, wrens, robins and rooks are sleeping. Still as statues the trees stand waiting. Dead branches drop, some fall with a single thump, others clatter down through leaves. Sounds float into the wood blurrily from the world outside. Ducks and geese, hints of far-away night traffic on the A12, and ghostly echoes, cows and sheep grazing the surrounding meadows. Is time really passing or is the wood dreaming? It's sifting yesterday away. Then, a bell strikes 1am. Beautiful. Crystal clear. The parish clock, several miles away and barely audible during the day. There are murmurs of a breeze throughout, and hazes of tiny delicate sounds like flurries of dry rain that come in waves. Perhaps leaves microscopically jostling in the cooling air.

Wind on water under an equinoctial sky - on the Dengie peninsula Essex

Not a place for unstable microphones. A mile along the winding footpath beside the River Crouch, with Althorne railway station and the ringing masts of Bridgemarsh Marina behind us, the landscape ahead is barren and wonderful. We pass concrete river bank reinforcements like sculpted mounds, treacherous slippery with weed. Further on, we come upon a stony beach and leave the microphones to record on a tripod, at the water's edge. We bid them farewell while we retire for a flask of tea. Drawn by the low tide and a waiting sea, fresh water streams urgently out, shallow over stones, rushing in sparkling eddies, blown this way and that by the equinoctial winds. But at 12 minutes alone and overcome by the pressure of air, the tripod keels over. It clanks onto newly exposed mud and stone, saved, by the outgoing tide. They carry on recording with flowing water perilously close. From this angle, the sound balance has shifted. Less river, more sky. A desolate grey sky, alive only with wind. The water hurries on. A lone redshank rings overhead. Gusts bully and blow. Wet mud glistens and dries. Then at 19 minutes seen from afar, back one of us runs over the stones, to set the tripod straight, to record a little more. The River Crouch is shrinking steadily, as it empties itself into the sea. Another lone bird passes. Then back we come again to collect the microphones and carry on with our walk to Burnham-on-Crouch.

Champagne shingle on Felixstowe beach

It's just after midday in August and very hot. Families are out on the beach sunbathing, children play in the water. At the shoreline, cool waves wash and dissolve onto the shingle. With each recession of a wave, water fizzes over the stones, sometimes frothing like bubbling champagne overflowing from a glass. The waves roll in on currents that lift and curl. Each wave kneads and brushes the shingle in its own unique way. The detail is intricate, each fragment of stone moves with it's own audible signature. Sitting so close to moving water is like a balm to the ears. To celebrate six months of Radio Lento, here's 19 minutes of watery ear balm from Felixstowe beach!

Folkestone Warren - Spitfire flypast then coastal murmurings

East Cliff overlooks the Channel and on a clear day like this, has a hazy view of France. On the way down to The Warren Beach, steep down a narrow winding path lined with stubby trees, we found a quiet spot to record, free of road noise. We left the microphones on a little tree overgrown with ivy, leaning out over a precipitous bank, thick with undergrowth and more trees overlooking a campsite below. Listen-in to the sound of the distant sea pervading the air like a soporific pillow. At 7 minutes, the scene is temporarily and dramatically interrupted by a World War II Spitfire. It appears from the land behind, heads briefly out towards France, before turning back. 45 minutes of coastal tranquillity returns. Now settle into the sound of the ocean murmuring with some comfortable wood pigeons, robins and seagulls. Light breezes ruffle leaves, children's voices float up from the campsite, high planes cross the sky. At the foot of the cliff the odd train passes along the Folkestone to Dover railway line.

31 Late summer heat bathing under splendid trees - peace in the Clinton-Baker Pinetum

Basking in 30 degree heat borrowed from July, it's a still September day. This forest, set in the Hertfordshire countryside, is at its calmest. As it is so quiet, it may take a little time for your ears to adjust. It is late on a Monday morning, there's nobody else around to hear the woodland alive with the buzzing of insects and scattered bird calls of rooks, robins and wood pigeons.

This forest, first established in 1767, is bisected by a railway line linking Hertford North station with London. Regular passenger services reverberate the cavernous space beneath the trees as they slide through. There's a heavy freighter at 40 minutes pulling smooth wagons that scythe the steel rails, and at 63 minutes another, a single locomotive with squeaky suspension. The noise of the passing trains seems to accentuate the sense of space in this wood and to intensify the silence in between. It's a silence sparsely punctuated by flocks of jackdaws as they forage the surrounding fields, and at 54 minutes a buzzard, a drooping whistling call as it circles high above the tree canopy.

This recording highlights just what an unusually peaceful place this is. It is a rare spot in the south of England where there is no road noise. The airspace above has layers of slow rumbling, high altitude jet planes, then lower down their tuneful cousins the propeller planes, banking and wheeling over the landscape. These are in themselves calming sounds. This non-stop spatial audio recording, made from the trunk of a tree just next to the public footpath, runs for 73 minutes. Its length shares the extraordinary qualities of the Clinton-Baker Pinetum as a long-form listening experience. Lastly, because it is so easily missed, hear at 32 minutes far off over the fields the bell striking 12, this is St Mary's Church Bayford, built by William Robert Baker.

Listen to other episodes from this special place. 

30 Wind and time passes in the Forest of Dean

It's 8am and deep in the forest, steady banks of wind are pushing into the upper canopy. Above, the sky is pale blue, bright. It is late May, the day begins. This is the last section of a 12 hour all-night recording. When we set the microphones up the day before, the air was still and warm, rich with the scent of untouched leafy ground. Now in this new day the high branches are swaying, their broad leaves hushing. Drops of water from a night rain shower onto the thick viny undergrowth that carpets the ground. Perched amongst them blackbirds, song thrush, wrens, wood pigeons, great tits and robins sing songs that reverberate around this cathedral of trees. And through the trees, from winding forest paths, dogs bark on their morning walks. Nearby, just beside the microphones, little birds occasionally flutter down to poke about in the undergrowth. Moving and changing, these tall trees stand timeless, gently blown by waves of wind. This episode comes in higher definition sound for a clearer listen. 

Trains, planes and estuary birds

It's a cloudy late August afternoon on the banks of the Thames Estuary near Benfleet in Essex. Wild gusts of wind race in over the water. On this side, spots of rain float in the air but a mile away on Canvey Island there's sun. It's low tide. Birds swoop and swirl over the exposed mudflats, hunting for food. Redshanks, gulls, little egrets, oyster catchers, curlew, avocet, crows. We climb down onto the mud and leave the microphones beside a tall upright rock for some shelter. It's not unlike a standing stone. The traffic on Canvey Island is a distant rumble, punctuated by the occasional motorbike. From behind, an aircraft takes off from Southend Airport flying directly overhead, tearing the sky, then out over the estuary. The wind drops and a blissful peace returns. Feathery wings swoosh nearby. Trains pass softly on the London Tilbury Southend railway line. Mud bubbles and pops in the quiet, sparkling with the movements of tiny creatures enlivened by the drying air.

Night rain falls on a Peak District moorside

It's 1am. In a remote wood set amongst steeply sloping fields above the now infamous Todbrook reservoir in Whaley Bridge Derbyshire. Heavy drops of rain have started to fall. Each fleeting drop punctuates the night air. A pair of owls appear from nowhere, calling to each other. The last flights to Manchester airport make their way over the moor. A restless lamb bleats. Hidden in almost complete darkness the rain reveals to the ear the thick canopy of leaves above. There is no wind. the trees are still. A single pinprick light glows far away over the moor. It's the last streetlight that marks the outer boundary of the town that lies a mile down the valley. Time passes. The rain gradually gets heavier.

Dead of night beside a lake in the Lee Valley Park - sleep special

It is 3am. At the water's edge, the shadows are thick. A single star reflects in the ink black water, bobbed by passing ripples. The wide-open waterscape is alive with the sound of birds, swimming and calling, drippling the surface of the water for food, cleaning their wings, landing and taking off. Something creeps through the foliage nearby, perhaps a swan in search of a place to settle. The air's still balmy from the hot day before. Soft breezes come and go, rustling the leaves of the over-hanging trees. In woodland across the lake, muntjacs invisibly call to each other, their dog-like barks carrying easily over the water. Miles beyond, undulating waves of traffic flow along the A10, sounding sometimes like distant wind. This recording was made in July. Microphones were hidden in a tree on the edge of the lake and left to record all night. The location was hidden away from the path, tucked down a shallow bank behind dense trees, nettles and brambles. A special spot known only to birds, insects and mammals.

August breezes through an ancient Oak

In the middle of a sundrenched field in Gilston Park near Harlow in Essex, a crow calls far-off to the left, a bird scarer fires shots to the right. It's a warm afternoon and there's a brisk August wind blowing across the landscape. Sitting beneath the vast boughs of an ancient Oak, shoulder-high grasses, thistles and sappling hawthorns hiss and flail in the wind. Dead branches reach out like arms, while green leaves on the healthy branches bounce and rustle. A bird comes to perch nearby. A fleeting fly whizzes past the microphones. From time-to-time the wind drops, and the A414 can be heard in the distance. Filtered by distance through acres of grass, the roadlike qualities are gone. It has become a soft wide noise across the horizon, a waterless tidal flow.

Cooling off beside sifting waves at Felixstowe Ferry

Sitting on a warm shingle beach where the river Deben joins the North Sea, feet stretched into the cool water. It's a hot afternoon and the ferry over to Bawdsey has made its last crossing of the day. Waves wash over the fine shingle, shifting and sieving, sweeping to and fro, fizzing and receding. A little way over on the right, a rock pool fills and empties with the swell. Seagulls fly out over the estuary mouth towards the sea. Small motor boats pass. Tilled up by the action of the waves a fragment of stone tinkles like a bright piece of metal. There's a gentle onshore breeze. Towards the end, the soft sound of a high altitude jet becomes a rumble that dissolves into the eastern sky.

 

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