The Sound and Silence

We set off at 10:30. It was as dark as it was going to get. A faint glow to the left but clouds let no starlight through. Hedgerows in the middle distance were silhouettes, their outline defined what they were but no detail was visible. The track was lighter than the grass and the hedges. As we walked round a bend, the hedges disappeared and the water could be made out, a patch of flat dark grey. In the far distance a red light. On the other side, pylons marched across the fields.

Up a slight rise and then down the other side. We stop. We have walked in silence, seventeen of us. We have stopped to listen. A vehicle is in the background. Some geese on the waters edge have a small argument. An owl calls.

We move on. We don't talk and we try to keep our eyes in front, try to have confidence in our footsteps, in the track. We can’t see much but we can smell the may, the woods and the occasional leak of perfume or aftershave. The sound of seventeen pairs of feet come into focus, once noticed difficult to shut out. We carry on.

Around another bend. Another pylon, a sentinel in the field, at once both alarming and secure. A bird sings. We stop. Is it? We move a few steps and stop when it starts again. It is. In the near distance the outline of a small wood breaks the horizon. As we approach, we slow down in direct ratio to our increased anticipation. Definitely. The bird is in good voice. 

We proceed in small silent movements not wishing to disturb his vocal theatrics. We stop by a thicket on the edge of the wood. We stand where we are, daring not to move but just to listen. The bird ignores us and continues on his night's repertoire of a musical couplet, silence, musical couplet, silence…. Oblivious to his audience he continues to woo, knowing that if necessary he has over 200 phrases to impress her, that he can go on like this for hours, that he will continue until the next generation can fly.

Apparently the nightingale's nocturnal repertoire is directed at the female, sang at a time when all other birds are silent. He can be heard during the day, but that is as much to warn others as it is to enchant a mate.

We mostly stand though one or two descend to the ground. Mikey takes his flute and, listening to the bird, fills in the gaps of the song. The bird does not mind. He responds. The bird and the flute take it in turns. To begin with it seems that the flute is following the lead from the bird, a couplet from the throat extemporised, developed by the instrument. Then, without being able to say when - or how - the interplay has become one, irrational, ethereal, beautiful, a duet between bird and man.

As the duet reaches its natural conclusion, the flute is laid aside and the bird continues alone. With eyes shut there is nothing around, no physical presence. There is no sense of place, just being, just submerged in the magic of the music. Another voice. This time, no flute, Mikey sings with the bird. Not an interplay as before. No improvisation. A song, with words and meaning. A warp of notes and words running through the weft of the bird song. Now the periods of silence between the couplets are filled, merged, as song overlaps song. Who is leading? Hard to say. Does it matter? No it doesn’t. Nothing matters. It is the moment. Just being in the moment, in the sound, in the music, that is what we came for.

All too soon the time has come to depart. We have stood or sat for at least an hour. Time is taken making sense of our surroundings, becoming reacquainted with the shades of darkness, the feel of the path, the cool of the night. We walk away as we came, in silence, but also in wonder.

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This event was organised by Singing with Nightingales, a series of evening performances by nightingales and different musical artists. Singing with Nightingales is organised by folk singer and song collector Sam Lee. The event I went to was at Grafham Water, the area managed by the Beds, Cambs and Northants Wildlife Trust. The musician, Mikey, is known as Bird Radio and I encourage you to listen to his playing and to his singing. The host for the evening was storyteller Malcolm Green.