Radio Lento podcast

Last month on the evening of 26 May a huge lightning storm centred over a remote wooded area on the Leicestershire-Rutland border where we had left the Lento box alone to record. From where we were staying about three quarters of a mile away we could see fork lightning. We were worried that our equipment might not survive. In our last episode (297) we shared the hour before the tumult began. Now in episode 298, we’re sharing a 92 minute segment of what it sounded like to be within the uninhabited forest as the storm passed directly overhead*. When we were in the woodland looking for a good spot for the mics, the sky was pure blue and the sun was shining down brightly. Soft breezes flowed between the trees carrying scents of cow parsley and sweet smelling vegetation. A perfect early summer's day. As we tied the Lento box to the trunk of an ash tree we had no hint of the weather to come. Torrential rain. Constant rolling thunder. Many overhead lightning strikes. A deluged forest streaming with water but whose resident wildlife rapidly springs back into song. If you like the thrill of sudden shock thunderclaps this is probably the episode for you but as a general note to all listeners please be aware there are some extremely loud and sudden thunderclaps as well as various other sound quality glitches. This is definitely NOT sleep safe. Please treat this episode as being a sound witness to extreme weather conditions in a remote rural woodland. It's also an opportunity to hear how wildlife sounds change during and after storm conditions. * This episode contains some shock thunderclaps (most intense at 50m 22s). The soundscape integrity is temporarily degraded when the mics overload. There is also a physical problem with the box itself, a 30 minute long period where the torrential rain gathers high up in the tree and begins to stream down the trunk some of which drips on top of the box itself. The dripping does eventually ease off and the forest returns with all its deluged wateriness back to rich sonorous song. ** For obvious reasons we don't have a photo of the storm in the forest. The image is from the same storm as it headed towards the area where the box was recording.

Capturing the sound-feel of real night quiet is special. It requires a lot of time and a location where quiet naturally occurs in more than just a fleeting way. Quiet is not silence. Silence is the absence of sound, whereas quiet happens when everything in the landscape is still audible. Just softer, and slower. Night brings quiet to natural and edgeland places. It enables us to better hear an environment's true spatialness and blend of sound signatures. By tying the Lento box to a tree looking down over the Warren on the Kent coast and exposing the microphones for over 50 hours non-stop, long periods of naturally occurring quiet were captured that serve as a true impression of this place. In this 90-minute passage of time taken from the dead of night on the second day of the recording, the sea can be heard distantly crashing onto the beach at the foot of the Warren. It surges and retreats, in slow unfurling rhythms. Close to the microphones, in the leaf litter around the tree, crickets call to each other in regular patterns, like naturally occurring clocks. Banks of wind blow in from time to time, gently ruffling leaves from left to right of scene. Sounds of indistinct origin sometimes echo across the valley, revealing the true width and depth of the space and far cries of seagulls, high flying in the vastness of the night sky. Of course this is England, and only a short distance from France. The headlights of French cars are sometimes visible from this very point. The Strait of Dover is one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, and a flight path runs directly over this area. Despite these mechanisms of human life, the planes that do overfly during this passage of time are quite gentle in the way they traverse the sky. It is the night quiet, and the sea, and the crickets that speak for themselves, and mean we just have to share this recording so everyone can be a sound-witness to the quiet of this place. * We made this recording back in August 2024. We didn't actually intend to leave the Lento box out recording for so long (into a third day) but we're glad we did.

Reaching the top of Long Mynd in rural Shropshire requires a good steady climb. The rocky footpath winds up and up, and so must you, if you want to get to the top. Most people do, as much for that sense of physical achievement gained over an hour or two, as the views. 360 degree panoramic views of all that makes this whole area so special. But before you get to those views, there are many other fascinating sights to be had on the way up. And not only for the eyes. Long Mynd is both a wild place and an area only lightly impacted by overflights. Once you are within the dramatic contours of this ancient landscape it is likely you'll encounter periods of near pristine quiet. Pristine quiet activates something fascinating in us, something we normally can't engage. Heightened aural awareness. Heightened aural awareness lets us fully connect with the landscape via our sense of hearing. Hearing is a kind of touch sense. While we can feel the wind as it buffits against our faces and bodies, we are thanks to the wind, able to perceive trees and grasses even though they may be a hundred yards away. Wind presses through their physical shapes and structures producing sound vibrations that then physically land on our eardrums. It's like we are touching them, even though they are beyond the reach of our hands. The higher you go up Long Mynd, the more you and the landscape are exposed to the elements. The wind surges stronger and stronger. Where the narrow and very steep footpath threads along the edge of rocks and a plummeting drop, the wind cannot be ignored. It is physical, and it is enlivening. It enlivens us, and it enlivens the trees and grasses. the birds. The hardy sheep as they graze the upland pasture. The tiny grasshoppers and crickets, only heard when the wind drops. * We made this recording up on Long Mynd back in August. It's perhaps our most precipitous recording location so far! We carefully attached the box to a dramatic hawthorn tree overhanging one of the many sheer drops, just off the footpath. Hikers can be heard passing up and down the stony path. Right of scene the wild landscape slopes steeply up. Left of scene slopes steeply down into the valley below. Centre scene are trees on the opposite side of the cleft. Sheep graze on steep ground below the tree for a while, and a raven or large crow briefly passes. We think there's a stonechat there too. It's very difficult to capture sound landscapes in the face of such powerful wind gusts, but the wind really is the very essence of this wild place, and so we've made an extra effort to sonically balance the hugely varying loudness levels in this recording and share what we hope is a listenable sound view of Long Mynd in beautiful Shropshire.

The environment within the cabin of a sleeper train is, well, unusual. Quite contradictory. It feels empty when you first step in, but full seconds later. It has a dead quiet feel, whilst also being noisy. It affords little physical space to move about in, yet anything you accidentally drop ends up out of reach. It would feel claustrophobic too if it weren't also strangely spatial when the lights are out. It has bareness and simplicity that somehow affords comfort. And the cabin often rocks about, as do you. The sound-feel within the cabin is unusual too. To start with there's rumble. Rumblings that roll constantly while the train is in motion. Sudden low frequency thuds and judders, as the carriages roll over joints and points in the track. There are regular pressure bumps in the internal air caused by trains passing close by in the opposite direction, and multiple strong humming sounds from the air conditioning and electric motors operating the train. Delicate sounds too. Tiny creaks and subtle shiftings in the fabrics and panelling that line the cabin, especially the ceiling which is made of flexible sound-absorbing slats. To be conducive to sleep you'd have thought the cabin ideally needs none of this. Yet there is an intense stillness. And during your considerable time in the cabin, twelve hours and more, these aural qualities interact, and form into their own rhythms. The mental chemistry of it all reacts to produce soporific calm. Set against my knees (as I slept) and the side wall of the cabin, with no inches to spare and bed clothes pushed up all around which would normally scupper any spatial recording, the Lento box recorded as the "night" began. Sleeping on a sleeper train is not like any normal night of course. The whole world around you is moving, rocking, as is everything in the soundscape. And yet you get your head into the comfortable hinged pillow (the back half goes up forming a bump protector) and you enter into a long aurally enhanced doze, that may, if you are lucky, become proper sleep. Listening back the Lento box captured a true impression of being in a sleeper train cabin. Including occasional bed covers shifting and one of us popping out of the cabin briefly which is all part and parcel of the sound experience. This passage of time is somewhere between 3am and 4am. The train is speeding steadily across France, passing through lamplit towns and cities as it rolls on through the night. (It's hard to resist sleeping with the window blind part rolled up so you can witness these truly marvellous scenes.) The journey on this SNCF service is over 850km, departing Cerbere station on the extreme southern coast of France at 1850hrs, arriving Paris Gare d'Austerlitz at breakfast time the next morning. >> We've just shared three minutes of video of the train gliding through the night. Watch on our YouTube.

Our friends told us that in Sant Llorenc the weather changes towards the end of August. Endless days of thick summer heat gives way to something altogether more dramatic. Ominous black clouds the size of cities. Rain drops like translucent grapes. Fork lightening like you see at the cinema. Thunder, that carves open the sky, like unimaginably huge boulders crashing downwards from the high mountain peaks. We followed the river Muga out of Sant Llorenc, into the valley beyond. Our aim was to reach a reservoir which we thought may be a good place to leave the Lento box to make an overnight recording. Eventually, along rough tracks surrounded by dense trees and noisy cicadas, we reached the water. Our way however was blocked. Two white horses. Impressive creatures. Standing astride the track. They had their backs towards us. We stopped, and watched, and kept our distance. Despite facing the other way the horses knew we were there. In low voices we shared ideas on what to do, whilst continuing to watch. Both stood firm. They were expressing only the smallest of movements through their tails. Some time passed. It felt like they were communicating something to us. But what? The valley with all its assorted cicadas seemed, somehow, to have fallen silent. We decided not to try to pass them. Something perhaps in the way they moved their tails said turn back. So we turned back. Returning along the track we entered an area of the valley where the shallow river sounded unusually sonorous. The way the water tumbled over the rocks. the depth, and the particular arrangement of the trees. Just off the track a tree looked down into the gorge, so we tied the lento box to it. It was the perfect place for it to record. Perhaps, if we could have read the tails of the horses, this was what they were trying to say. Record back where you've come. Where it's sheltered. And where the river wrills. There's a storm. Coming.

It's August intermission time! This year we've decided to bring together recordings from more than one location in a specific geographic area and share them as a long non-stop episode. This is our first ever "Lento Long" at 3 hours. A chance to aurally travel across a geographic area and experience it from different perspectives. Depending on your own personal sensitivities to human made sound, it may be sleep safe. Children can distantly be heard playing on the beaches, and at just over an hour a microlight gradually drones over. For us this creates a wonderful sense of beach-time, where nothing in the world feels urgent anymore, but not everyone may respond in the same way so we haven't officially labelled this Lento Long as *sleep safe*. Here's a guide to what you'll hear. - The first hour is from the edge of the rocky beach at Lilstock in West Somerset, your back lent against a comfortable tree as the waves wash left to right with the longshore drift. - At one hour this blends into the rarified ambience of Kilve beach at low tide, a soundscape carried into awareness with the gradual progression of a little microlight that slowly drones over high above.- At one hour thirty, day becomes night. A weatherfront is passing over a remote cottage half way up West Quantoxhead. Fresh currents of Somerset air press freely through a bank of trees behind the cottage, setting their leaves and branches swaying, and hushing in richly undulating white noise. - At just after two hours thirty, you invisibly reappear, sitting beside a secluded stream farther up the hill. You're listening to the pristine sound of water flowing off the top of West Quantoxhead, with the gentle company of two resting sheep nearby. The episodes we blended together to make this Lento Long are 244, 254, 248, 255 and 249, where you can read in detail about each location. They were all recorded in late October 2024. We'll release another Lento Long next week and resume the weekly service from the start of September. Thanks to everyone for listening.

It's not often we record from the back garden. The spot is suburban. Grassy and full of tangled shrubs yes, and encircled by a sprawling wisteria too that visually at least gives a verdantly self contained feel. But foliage while beguiling the eye does not strain out the roads and street sounds of the city. Or the sky. Flight paved, plane lined, jet rumbled. No, quiet is never in abundance here. At the end of last week, after a long run of bone dry conditions, the day came when rain was forecast. As day turned to dusk, the sky that'd been different shades of blue for so long, turned an opaque grey. The dark did not bring cool. If anything the air gained heat. As we set up the Lento box to record, the air moved around our bare arms and legs like warm weightless water. We could almost feel with our skin how the rain was starting to form. We left the box alone on the grass, by the wisteria, to record all night. A night of half conscious dreams of rain, pounding on the roof. Of liberally flowing water. Of a loudly chortling drain. Of dawn birds singing through aural mists of green things dripping. Listening back, witnessing the passage of time when the first rain began to fall, what struck us most was how delicious the first rain felt. Perhaps it's joy. The plants at last are having a drink. As time passes, other feelings come about. This is good rain. Heavy rain. Quenching rain. The birds will be able to bathe in shallow puddles gathered between roofs, and the world will sparkle, clean, when the light comes. But what we also gained from a long listen to this section of time, was the transition. How different the environment sounds and feels towards the end. Echoes and a pleasant sheen of aural silkyness. And endless things dripping. And what we didn't expect to hear, bees starting their days from the very first rays of daylight. And hints of swifts screaming overhead.

(pronounced Birr Island) This long, slow Devon day, is drawing softly to a close. Looking out to sea, the sky beyond has already fallen velvet black. It's midnight. Scattered lamps shine on Burgh Island. It looks from here more like a dark thicket, afloat on a vast water field. With glow worms, hiding. The tide's in now. Closed around the island. Encircled it, with rich undulating sound. Filled up the wide sandy beach, for as far as the eye can see, with swirling shallows. Ankle deep. As the sea meets itself coming in across the causeway, it splashes up fingers of crisp white spray. Some gulls are still aloft. High wheeling, but mostly quiet. Silently weaving between the stars. Riding on the diurnal winds. the off-shore breeze, or land breeze, created by the land-sea temperature contrast that happens at this time of night. * As with all Lento episodes it can take several minutes for your listening brain to properly switch into the soundscape. This one hour segment is from an overnight recording we made in April. The Lento box is perched on a second floor balcony looking straight down the causeway towards Burgh island, which is only about 200 yards from the box. Due to the topography of the beach and how it contours around the island, the sound-shape of the sea is interestingly different to other coastal locations we've captured. The breakers form and gather spatially, often very slowly, with long periods of swirling eddies in between. High tide is reached towards the end of this segment. Moderately strong wind gusts sometimes buffer the microphones. As a recording location it is exposed. We've applied some spot rumble reduction when this happens just to improve the experience for headphone / Airpod listeners.