Lake District – Angletarn
The sounds of man are constant, unremitting, loud. A cacophonous symphony of decibels, the beating of hammers, the explosion of TV, lawnmowers, processors, cars, trucks, the dull roar of planes. The branches beating against the window.
There is a natural noise that emits on a frequency that fulfills the conscience of people. Grass shifting in a breeze, the rustle of branches, calls of the insects and birds, the crackle of fire. Naturally they sooth our desires, smooth out urges into a sensation that no engine could every produce – contentment.
With or without man, these sounds are as old as the world. They fit together. Even the boom of thunderclouds are more enjoyable than a car going by. We humans evolved to these sounds. In the same way that photosynthesizing plants can only be green, and green is as agreeable as it is to our visual perceptions, so is the music of nature so beloved by our senses. It could be no other way. Those who claim to be irritated by the sound of wind in the trees are forcibly denying an element of themselves, brutally repressing that part of them that is as much a part of us as blood flowing through a vein.