A journey into sound

Progressive hearing loss prompted a memorable quest to absorb nature's calls and choruses

- By NEIL ANSELL Illustration by SUNNU REBECCA CHOI

I AM CAMPED HIGH UP AMONG THE crumbling volcanic peaks of the Isle of Rum, in the Inner Hebrides, sheltering in my tent from dense clouds of the hungriest midges I have ever encountered. As darkness falls, the fur of midges covering my tent begins to disperse a little, and I venture out still higher, find a spot to sit, and wait.

There is total silence; the mountains seem utterly lifeless. There is no moon and the darkness is almost total. For a long time nothing happens and I start to worry that I have come to the wrong place, or that I have left it too late in the season. But then I think I hear something far off and faint, at the very limits of my hearing. And a moment later they are all around me, whooshing past my head, invisible in the dark, and calling four quickfire calls. The dark mountain suddenly turns from tranquillity to tumult. Manx shearwaters are flying in in their thousands.

They nest in burrows high in these hills and only come ashore at nighttime, after a day of fishing possibly a hundred miles out at sea. The colony on this Scottish island is home to perhaps a hundred thousand pairs, a third of the entire world population. There is layer upon layer of sound; those nearby ring out pure and clear, while beyond them is a constant chatter like a room full of people at a party all talking at once. And beyond even that is a wave of muttering, as if the entire mountain has come to life. It is an overwhelming experience - individually, their calls may sound harsh and discordant, but as one they sound to me like a choir of angels. This is the final species I have sought out this year, creatures I really want to hear while I still can.