With the rough texture of a drystone wall behind my back, I perch on a flat stone and look over the high field.
I can’t see much of the valley since it’s fogged by low cloud. This sharpens my other senses and I become aware of the damp, of the smell of earth and leaves and rain-soaked grass.
With less to see, it’s the sounds that are most acute, especially after months of silence. Now the air is vibrant with the waders that have returned to the Allen valley.
Lapwings cry wee weep weep weep as they soar and tumble over clumps of field rush. A curlew cranks up its voice as it glides, before bursting out in jubilant bubbling. Chaffinches make chinking sounds in the twisty beech branches above my head.
Far off, I hear the sweet sad call of golden plover and, from the heather, there’s the throaty double note of red grouse. Somewhere a snipe is whirring in a display flight, vibrating its stuck-out tail feathers on a downward dive.
Other, more domestic, sounds come up from the hidden valley. A collie barking. A blackbird singing in a farm garden. A quad bike engine that keeps stopping, then moving on, as a farmer feeds and checks his stock. Only the sheep are silent, heavy with lamb.
How long have I sat here, absorbed in the soundscape? An hour, maybe more, but gradually the mist is brightening, peeling back, and light is touching the dull green of winter fields, and the stone walls that undulate with the land to disappear down wooded ravines.
What I couldn’t see before: a black grouse standing motionless on the wall that separates field and moorland, a bold dark silhouette against straw-coloured grass; a pair of oystercatchers probing the boggy ground with orange beaks; white smoke rising from a farmhouse chimney.
Then, as I straighten up, I realise I’ve not been the only one up here. A surprised hare takes a long look at me before lolloping away, all powerful legs and black-topped ears. It’s a moment of wonder to complete the morning.
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