Along with ‘furlough’, I have learnt the meaning of a new word this summer: ‘susurration’. 

Attempting to broaden my narrow reading range during lockdown, I forced my way through Thomas Hardy’s Under Greenwood Tree. Hardy wrote that ‘people dwelling in woods could identify a tree by its susurration.’
 
Stretching over to the bookshelf for a dictionary I found it meant whispering or rustling. He was referring to sound of

Painted lady butterfly, photo by Nick Goodrum

leaves in the wind, concluding ‘at the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan, the holly whistles as it battles with itself and the ash hisses amid its quivering.’ 

I had not thought of trees in this way before, but it dawned on me that every tree has its own voice, just as every bird species has its own song. A summer woodland will have its own character made distinctive by the trees that form it. 

Oaks are at first papery, then as the leaves thicken, leathery in tone; poplar fizz like the opening of a soda bottle; aspens have fooled many that rain is approaching; pines whoosh and plane trees rattle.   

This soundscape of our woods in summer is perhaps overlooked: in our gardens more notice is given to the colour or scent of the season - the painted butterflies tripping lazily through an aroma filled flowerbed. Sounds, such the neighbour’s lawn mower and a passing passenger-jet overhead, are to be blocked out. 

Birdsong is of course a big part of our summer gardens, but by the start of July it is on the wane, even the most enthusiastic blackbird is tired and less vibrant of voice. 

Nature’s more subtle sounds are worth taking the trouble to listen for, perhaps sit quietly by the pond and patience will bring the fizz and crackle of a dragonfly’s wings as it zips past your head. In the tall sward a grasshopper may stridulate its legs against wing covers for you, creating the unmistakable soundtrack of those long hot days of school’s summer break. 

Juvenile bearded tit in summer reeds, photo by Elizabeth Dack

The reed beds of the Norfolk Broads are my personal favourite. In winter reeds are ‘browned-off’ and dry as bone, when a cold north-east wind blows through them they sound hollow and brittle, full of complaint. But in summer the reed is a lush green, in a light warm breeze each leafy stem strokes and caresses one another whispering a secret that travels gently through the swaying bed. The low hum of a hundred thousand insects creates a canvas that is spread out for the constant conversation of the reed warbler, the outraged expletives of the Cetti’s warbler and jingling of reed bunting to be painted upon it. During a good breeding year a reed bed can be full of bearded tits pinging a short contact note to each other and in recent summers we have had the welcome return of booming bittern and the primeval bugle of crane. 

But we have lost so many of our summer sounds: the crake of rails, the evening chorus of field crickets and the chattering leaves of hedgerow elms. Soon our woodlands will have another silence, Thomas Hardy’s ‘hiss and quiver’ of the ash. It will slowly succumb to the ‘die-back’ disease and another tree’s voice eventually falls mute. These diminishing sounds of wildlife can also be heard as a cry for help. 

The unexpected hush of human activity this spring meant many people – some for the first time – could hear their garden birds sing territorial claims, see them win a mate and build their nests; time allowed us a new appreciation of nature. 

And we know many people in Norfolk are taking action in their gardens and local patches to protect the sights and sounds of Norfolk’s wildlife. So as we enter a new normal, let’s not ‘turn a deaf ear’, but come to nature’s rescue. 
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