Sunday 13 June 1915, New Romney


My duties necessitated my visiting Rye at a very late hour. On my return, between 12 and 1 in the morning, the chain of my motor-bike broke and I had to leave my machine out. It was a very dark night and only a few of the brightest planets showed through the hazy atmosphere. A light breeze stirred the reeds and in the distance a dog could be heard baying at intervals. Otherwise the night was silent save for the jarring, punctuated melody of the reed warblers. It was strange to hear these pleasant strains issuing from the murky shadows that surrounded us. Whether it was our footsteps that disturbed them and so evoked their music or the birds’ natural inclination I am not prepared to say, but in any case they were only bird notes to break the silence with the exception of a very occasional pee-wit of a lapwing or the hoarse, comfortable croak of a moorhen deep in her bed of reeds.



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