Winterbrook Soundwalk

Standing behind the bus stop by the hospital on Reading Road, I adjusted my recording level and found a comfortable handling grip, then set an intention to listen to my body walking, a short walk up-river, to St Leonard’s Church.

I set off across the entrance to the hospital and then the main road, following Winterbrook to the Thames Path. With the headphone level set slightly louder than the ambient level and the recorder held at waist height, the padding of my footsteps were an obvious and easy anchor for my attention. I maintained this focus, for probably about half of the walk, being aware of the various materials shifting underfoot, the occasional scuffing of my shoes, the squashing of conker shells and the pinging acoustic of the narrow covered-passage between Lower Wharf and the church. There were a number of points during the soundwalk, where I found myself drawn outwards, towards sonic interest in the soundscape, particularly changes; the distant howling of a strimmer; the currents and obstacles altering the flow of the brook; the approach of others on the path; a far-off siren. As others passed me, I noted again the self-selected seclusion that field recording brings. A jogger whispered “thank you” as I moved off the narrow path for her and another lady mouthed “good morning” as she walked past with her dog. These were quieter and less intrusive interactions than I would expect if I were not field recording, greetings that seemed to respect the act of recording and my half-presence. For my part, a smile or nod sufficed as acknowledgement. No one expected me to chat or interact beyond this and, while I was conspicuous, there did not seem to be any nervousness or concern on their faces. I would assume that there was a curiosity around my presence, an inquisitiveness that may, on other occasions, have manifested in a question, but this rarely happens when I’m recording. Perhaps passersby entertained the possibility that I was a twitcher, a music student, a noise abatement officer, or recording enthusiast, who knows? But while there was interest and intrigue in my perceived purposefulness, I got the impression that they believed there was a very reasonable explanation for my being there, headphones on, recorder in hand. My mind wandered and, each time, I prompted myself to bring attention inwards, closer, back to the sounds of walking. About half way through the walk, rather than focusing on the sonic details of footsteps, my attention naturally stepped-back a little, resting on their predictable rhythm, this becoming a supportive focus for my attention. There was a feeling of distance from events during this period and, with this distance, a sense of respite from the demands of the soundscape.

A period of stillness at the end of the walk gave me opportunity to settle. The disappearance of my rubber soles agitating the gravel and the polyrhythm swish of my clothing in the headphones allowed quieter aspects of the soundscape to be exposed. No longer tethered to my footsteps, my attention was free to move outwards again; to the background noise of traffic; the bells of St Mary’s ringing nine-o-clock; the jangle of a dog’s lead; and the familiar buzz of light aircraft overhead.

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Soundwalking adorned with field recording paraphernalia signals to others that we are purposeful in our walking and listening. In my experience, the vast majority of interactions with passersby are non-verbal: smiles, nods and other soundless acknowledgments as we pass each other. Occasionally, people do break the silence to say hello or inquire as to my purpose. I find these moments really insightful, as I am forced to react intuitively or swiftly respond. Do I reply, ignore or awkwardly, perhaps apologetically, half-acknowledge the passerby? How I react can reveal my intentions and attachments. If I am recording to share my listening with others, it may be difficult to accept the interaction as part of the soundscape or accede to exposing my presence on the recording for future listeners to appraise? Do I accept that my presence alters the soundscape or am I wedded to an imagined ideal, where I am a detached observer, a voyeur or ghost-like figure silently moving through? If I am using the soundwalk as a cover for quiet seclusion, do I resent the intrusion or welcome the interruption with friendly acceptance? How I habitually react may expose tensions, between my attachment to an imagined result and my openness to the vagaries of the moment, between my need for solitude and a requirement to maintain social etiquette. This is not to cast judgment on our need for seclusion or desire to capture the soundscape unbroken by chatter, but simply to be prompted to acknowledge and explore how we are approaching soundwalking.

As my amble along Wallingford’s waterways highlights, such conspicuous soundwalking typically stilts and silences casual conversation with passers-by, altering their behaviour and changing, usually quietening, their sound-making. While this can feel uncomfortable, it offers a rare opportunity to embrace wordless exchanges, respectful silences, friendly hand gestures and nods of acknowledgement that can be beautiful in themselves. Wordless connection provides a rare opportunity to meet and briefly connect with strangers in considerate silence, our purposefulness normalising quiet connection. If you have experienced a silent retreat with others, you may recognise this phenomenon, where our intentions, wishes, questions and confusions are translated into hand-gestures, soundless utterances, clear trajectories and co-created body language. With time there can grow a confidence in navigating our relationships silently, appreciating the subtleties of body language and enjoying the depth of connection that can come when we do not reduce the world to words. While field recording is somewhat different, it may offer an opportunity to cultivate and cherish silent human connection.

Take good care of yourself,

Richard.

Whatever brought you here, you are very welcome.

Thank you for listening and do consider sharing your experiences, reflections and wisdom in the comments below or by emailing me at: richard@anoisysilence.com