Diary of a sound recordist: Naked ears on the soundstage

Looking down at my walking shoes, still dusty from my last walk, I felt the physical absence of my recording gear. Today, for some reason I couldn’t decipher completely, I didn’t want to bring it.

A few days ago, I was immensely lucky to see the lapwings arriving at their usual wintering location, so I went their way today. Entering the area from the road, I stopped for a few minutes to observe the cows. They all had one ear tagged and a cowbell around their neck. I thought some of them were new around here; I couldn’t remember seeing light gray ones like this here before. There were calves, too, seemingly always near their mother. They appeared very calm, as was the soundscape. In time, some of them will disappear and become butchered body parts somewhere else. But the soundscape will remain very much the same, at least to the casual passerby; If no one is there to listen.

Ahead, during an early summer weekend at the end of April, were thousands and thousands of tiny colorful flowers: I had laid down amongst them, nearly intoxicated by their fragrance, with a piece of rainbow drawn in the sky, scored by the expressive song of Thekla’s lark (Galerida theklae). Now, the meadow was a humid dark green, with many tall wild carrot flowers standing dry since late July.

Observing the changes in the landscape and its sounds over the seasons, and through their climatic impositions, has nurtured in me a sense of (what I think is) love. I was still considering that when I saw a car ahead; someone was at the shore, maybe a fisherman, maybe a man with a fishing rod. This upset me slightly; once before, an unknown man starkly invaded my territory and followed me along the road. I don’t know when this horrible experience will fade enough that it doesn’t come to mind each time I notice the presence of a man here. 

Instead of continuing straight ahead, I decided to turn right, through the bended long reedgrasses. Raising my knees high, I searched for voices with my hearing and wondered if the sound of my presence had been noticed. A rock invited me to sit, so I did. I was quiet, except for the upper button of my jacket ticking in the wind, fast like a metronome, producing a small metal-polyester sound. I bent a corner of the fabric around the button, taking this tickle away from the wind. Across the dirt road in front of me, I could hear Iberian magpies and, once in a while, corn buntings. 

I looked at the midwife toad pond – still amazed by their unconcerned, staccato calls – and remembered a boar I had heard drinking water, strolling at the pond’s edges. I was immensely surprised by how loud its breathing was, which made it seem uncautious. 

Very far away, on a piece of land which will be submerged by midwinter, sheep were small, light dots, but their bleating reached me with immense clarity. I heard the younger ones, I heard the sheepdog and saw it running around and, occasionally, I also heard the man who takes care of the flock. 

Intermittently, to my right, one of the cows mooed in the distance, and suddenly I was in the middle of the soundscape, like a stone on a stone, but pretending not to exist. I thought of the differences between being here to just be and the times when I carry my gear and listen through it. 

Listening through the gear creates a stage where I look for any contextual problems which may arise – but also for beauty. I make decisions about the configuration of sounds that I want to capture: this toad here. That wind there. Closer. Not now. There are no pure nature recordings.

There are no pure nature recordings.

From where I was, I couldn’t look down to see the lake shore where I intended to go. But, before long, I heard two voices: one of a man and another whose timbre I couldn’t make sense of. I was curious about how muffled they sounded, even though I estimated that no more than 30 meters (98 feet) separated us. They were muffled to below 500 hertz. 

As their voices moved closer to the car I saw earlier, their route down the dirt road was clear, and soon enough I heard one door opening. I wait impatiently for another door to open, and both to close. I wondered if I should pretend to be a cautious animal, but I am one – though I no longer feel threatened because I knew of their presence much earlier than they would have known of mine, and that gave me power (even though my knife stayed at home).

My decision was made: I was going to the shore. I made myself move noisy through the reedgrasses, but didn’t look back. 

And, finally, I sat on the dirt and examined the edge of the water: brown-green, dusty, bright algae powdered, with dark red plants emanating, balancing in tune with the very soft shlop-shlop sound of this uninviting slimy edge. I roamed the line between the rocky, dusty ground and the dancing slime-algae-water to look for a clear point of entry. 

Where did I go into the water, when I bathed here in the spring and early summer? It needs rain. In my head, I heard the giggles and sounds of excitement I made when I dived into the cold water in a past May, reflecting back from the surrounding oak trees. Playing, talking with sounds and trees, I was impatient to carve new dreamy memories. In a way, I already wanted the season to come back round: so overloaded with joy, body permeated with lively scents, sounds, textures, dry-warm, wet-cold.

I heard a smack and an air-sucking sound right in front of me. It was familiar from a recent observation on the other side of the lake: a catfish. My senses were back in the present as I scanned more deeply, looking for clues: a sinuous movement of a mysterious protuberance, bubbles, or a particular animosity amidst the dancing plants; it’s as if my ears are stretched, expecting another smack. But, instead, they were hit by a grey heron call: my torso recoiled in surprise and I gazed into the sky after the sonorous prehistoric call and saw those large wings. It was a big heron, now leaving my horizon, having certainly shaken up all the creatures in the trees it came from.

A few very small fuschia flowers (Portucala pilosa; a purslane species) had erupted from the dirt. They are called ‘grown love’ in Portuguese. No other name could have been more accurate for this moment. I uncovered a little white, shiny stone from the dirt with my fingers, now also covered with dirt; it didn’t repulse me and I didn’t feel the need to brush it off. How can a small stone look so beautiful? Why this color? I knew nothing about this and lamented the fact, as if I was at fault. I put it in my left pocket, making a promise to find out more.

I decided it was time to go, for now. 

On the way back, I noticed the car was no longer there and was very surprised I hadn’t heard it: why was that? Where was I?

A little egret flew above the midwife toad pond, to my left. 

It was only back at home that I realized I didn’t see or hear any lapwings, and made a promise to return soon.