SPINNINGDALE, 24th July, late afternoon

It begins with the aspens. Five of them stand near the track, each adept at making the invisible seen, the inaudible heard.

The slightest ripple of air can shiver their leaves to motion. Right now, there's something liquid in their tone, like the hiss of rain, though no rain falls.

Silence from them would be eerie, as if the whole company of the wider wood was holding its breath. It could feel like rejection.

There's no fear of that today, as squalls push in fast from the west, crest the crag at the core of this place and slam down on stem and branch. Then silence - save for the aspens, I think.

But I'm wrong. And as I move on, boots rustling over grass and leaf, the shush, shush of each footfall makes me aware of my own noise and the need to calm it. Treading more gently now, I begin to sift sound from sound, start to wish for a focus that I do not yet possess.

Eyes shut, I try to distinguish birch from pine, willow from rowan. It's hard, but tantalising.

Twig rustle, leaf shake, then a gathering roar as a rush of wind rolls down the glen. Buzzard cries and storm clouds are trailed in its wake. And a brief stillness.

It will take time to know the sound of one leaf moving; to hear the wood from its trees.

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