The man (and the songbird) behind the masterpiece Lark Ascending

Take yourself out for a walk — open grassland or farmland should do it, or a heath, or even a coastal marsh. Stop, breathe, listen. Somewhere over that field, invisible, is a distant voice. A faint “skirrup” — fleetingly heard, then lost. Almost a mirage, carried away on the wind. Yet as you walk it gets louder, the skirrup turning to a jumble of scattery song, until you can narrow down its source to “somewhere up there, in the sky”.

This is when you need patience. Because it will be hard to find. You would have thought it would be easy. It’s singing, after all. And the sky is clear. Surely something making that much continuous noise will be simple to track down? Apparently not.