Sounds of the summer
Perhaps it is because we spend more time outdoors in the summer months than we do for the rest of the year, and this brings us closer to the sound of the world at that time. Or maybe it is the resonance of sounds and their association with our younger years, with long school holidays and adventures in the sun. For whatever reason, I find summer associated with sounds hardly heard in other seasons, if at all. Edward Thomas’ famous poem, Adlestrop, describes an unexpected exposure to some interesting sounds. In fact, the poem is all about sound. It starts:
Yes. I remember Adlestrop--
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
He goes on:
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
And concludes:
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
The station no longer exists, and was, in fact, located a small distance from the village of that name. This was a common finding on the Great Western Railway where stations could be a mile or more from the towns and villages they served. You will still find what remains of it, though, between the surviving stations of Kingham and Moreton-in-the Marsh on the beautiful railway line that runs through the Cotswolds and Malverns between Oxford and Hereford.
The Lovin’ Spoonful sang Summer in the City in 1966. The famous C minor chord of the keyboard intro is instantly recognisable, and the score includes sounds which you would not normally expect in a pop song; a pneumatic drill, and a car horn, which is I believe, that of a VW Beetle. Find them on YouTube and observe the fashion crimes and outrageous facial hair. It begins:
Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn't it a pity
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city
There are other sounds that I will always associate with the summer. The sound of a two-stroke engine scooter at dusk, leaving you to imagine that it’s being driven by a young man whose lady pillion passenger clings to him, as they drive to his flat where they will make love under a slowly-revolving ceiling fan, windows wide open to admit the other sounds of the summer.
In the still of the evening, here in the middle of Bury, another sound: a lawnmower humming as a neighbour chooses the cooler part of the day to tend to the patch of grass he calls his garden.
The sea is a summer treat, although I also enjoy it in its winter majesty. The noise of the stays and shrouds, the steel wires which form the mast rigging of a yacht, driven by the wind into clanking against the masts of boats tied up or aground, is a sound I find supremely soothing in its rhythmicity. I can hear and enjoy the sound here in Bury, miles and miles from the sea, for I live close to the Greene King Brewery whose metal chimneys have wires attached for the convenience of those brave souls who paint the chimneys every few years. I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine that I am at Southwold. Or Lossiemouth.
Also close to my house is a primary school. Is there a happier sound in the whole world than that of children laughing and playing?
Another favourite, heard in the garden on a warm afternoon, is the lazy sound of a piston propeller engined aeroplane crossing the clear blue summer sky. Where has he been, and where is he bound? And then, in the later evening, from the bedroom, music blown in bursts by the wind from Abbey Gardens; you hear it, then the wind carries it away before allowing it back.
I’ve left a sport to last. In Tom Stoppard’s play The Real Thing you will find the well-known “Cricket bat speech.” Henry holds a cricket bat and uses it as a metaphor for writing; a good writer is using a cricket bat, a poor writer is just wielding a piece of wood. He says:
“This thing here, which looks like a wooden club, is actually several pieces of particular wood cunningly put together in a certain way so that the whole thing is sprung, like a dance floor. It’s for hitting cricket balls with. If you get it right, the cricket ball will travel two hundred yards in four seconds, and all you've done is give it a knock like knocking the top off a bottle of stout, and it makes a noise like a trout taking a fly.”
If you’ve ever heard a batsman execute a perfect stroke, with the ball despatched to the boundary, you will recognise that sound. What is your favourite summer sound?
Yes. I remember Adlestrop--
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
He goes on:
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
And concludes:
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
The station no longer exists, and was, in fact, located a small distance from the village of that name. This was a common finding on the Great Western Railway where stations could be a mile or more from the towns and villages they served. You will still find what remains of it, though, between the surviving stations of Kingham and Moreton-in-the Marsh on the beautiful railway line that runs through the Cotswolds and Malverns between Oxford and Hereford.
The Lovin’ Spoonful sang Summer in the City in 1966. The famous C minor chord of the keyboard intro is instantly recognisable, and the score includes sounds which you would not normally expect in a pop song; a pneumatic drill, and a car horn, which is I believe, that of a VW Beetle. Find them on YouTube and observe the fashion crimes and outrageous facial hair. It begins:
Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn't it a pity
Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city
There are other sounds that I will always associate with the summer. The sound of a two-stroke engine scooter at dusk, leaving you to imagine that it’s being driven by a young man whose lady pillion passenger clings to him, as they drive to his flat where they will make love under a slowly-revolving ceiling fan, windows wide open to admit the other sounds of the summer.
In the still of the evening, here in the middle of Bury, another sound: a lawnmower humming as a neighbour chooses the cooler part of the day to tend to the patch of grass he calls his garden.
The sea is a summer treat, although I also enjoy it in its winter majesty. The noise of the stays and shrouds, the steel wires which form the mast rigging of a yacht, driven by the wind into clanking against the masts of boats tied up or aground, is a sound I find supremely soothing in its rhythmicity. I can hear and enjoy the sound here in Bury, miles and miles from the sea, for I live close to the Greene King Brewery whose metal chimneys have wires attached for the convenience of those brave souls who paint the chimneys every few years. I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine that I am at Southwold. Or Lossiemouth.
Also close to my house is a primary school. Is there a happier sound in the whole world than that of children laughing and playing?
Another favourite, heard in the garden on a warm afternoon, is the lazy sound of a piston propeller engined aeroplane crossing the clear blue summer sky. Where has he been, and where is he bound? And then, in the later evening, from the bedroom, music blown in bursts by the wind from Abbey Gardens; you hear it, then the wind carries it away before allowing it back.
I’ve left a sport to last. In Tom Stoppard’s play The Real Thing you will find the well-known “Cricket bat speech.” Henry holds a cricket bat and uses it as a metaphor for writing; a good writer is using a cricket bat, a poor writer is just wielding a piece of wood. He says:
“This thing here, which looks like a wooden club, is actually several pieces of particular wood cunningly put together in a certain way so that the whole thing is sprung, like a dance floor. It’s for hitting cricket balls with. If you get it right, the cricket ball will travel two hundred yards in four seconds, and all you've done is give it a knock like knocking the top off a bottle of stout, and it makes a noise like a trout taking a fly.”
If you’ve ever heard a batsman execute a perfect stroke, with the ball despatched to the boundary, you will recognise that sound. What is your favourite summer sound?
