If silence had a colour attached to it,it would be Green to me.As I sit in the holiday cottage on Exmoor,I’m surrounded by silence the like of which I have rarely experienced before.Please don’t get me wrong,I’m not complaining,as it’s very submergence helps me figure out what sounds are truly important to me.
That interplay between sound and silence is heightened in a place like this where is isn’t any noise pollution,where the solitary bird rings out in the trees as a solo by a rising diva but without the floral tributes and rasping applause.This voluntary singing by out feathered friends is such a joy to observe,the purity of it,and especially in the mornings.Outside the conservatory window,bees and butterflies do their stuff,their ingatherng ,their flight foraging,away from the city buzz of combustion bees .
As the river Ex wends its way ,its talks to me in patterns of waters over stones and Peebles with its reach into my mind ,turning the cigs of my imagination in a mill-wheel,grinding the seeds of my thoughts to spark a new plant of impression and maybe flower to sustain my cerebral output when I return to the town for whence I came.
Yes,we can,and must,feed off of the silence,for out of it comes the best music,the pulses of our life to make sen e of why we are who we are.
So,as I hear the gunshot in the distance,I refuse to relent on my love for the countryside,and refuse that allow my access of it to be dictated too by the gunshot.As I await my visit to Tarr steps,I will observe that Exmoor gem in its company of so many others,appreciating that ,to me,Exmoor offers up a place of solace amidst the noise of confusion and chatter that is ,in many ways,life in 2017.