The wind-catchers along the bottom of the valley miss nothing. Even the lightest breath has them whispering. And when the wind strengthens, they do a good imitation of the river streaming over boulders below their feet. Truly, when it blows, it pours.
Pass a poplar and you are enjoying the best example of psithurism, the sound of wind in trees. All this growing season, I have listened politely to oaks, alders and willows, but if I rocked up in a pub looking for chatty company, I’d want a poplar as the bar stool next to me.
