I used to be a field recordist, which sounds cooler than it probably was, because mostly it meant standing very still in cold woods while your nose ran and your fingers went numb.

Dark Walk Woods, that was the place. My parents lived nearby, and every spring I’d haul myself out of bed before the sun, pack up my gear, and go crouch in the brambles.

There’s a weird magic to hearing a blackbird open its throat at 4.30 a.m., when you’re the only human dumb enough to be there to hear it.

I loved how solitary it was. No emails, no traffic, no having to explain yourself to anyone. Just the wind, the birds, the soft heavy silence of trees thinking their tree thoughts. It was one of those things that felt like it should go on unitl I lost my faculties. But it didn’t.

When I moved to Harrogate, everything shifted sideways. I’d scout out locations, looking for a good spot, but half the time it turned out to be a dogging site or somewhere equally sketchy. Hard to find your zen when you’re half-wondering if someone’s going to appear from the bushes with an awkward expression and a packet of wet wipes.

After a few weird encounters, the whole thing started to lose its shine.

The gear’s still sitting on a shelf. Every so often I look at it and think, maybe it’s time to sell it. Then I think, maybe not. Because what if the urge comes back? What if I find myself one morning wide awake at 4 a.m., heart pounding with the need to get out there, microphone in hand, chasing the sound of the world waking up?

So for now the gear stays put. Gathering dust. Waiting.

Just like me, maybe.