The silence is palpable. We sit motionless in the dark, goosebumps on our arms, listening intently to every rustle, creak and far-off snap of twig, waiting for a tweet, a call, anything that will tell us there is a nightingale somewhere in the vicinity. Like many in this little group, it will be the first time I have ever heard one. I can hardly dare breathe for fear of scaring it off.
It’s a chilly May night in Sussex, and I’m one of 15 people who have just walked half a mile through pitch-black countryside to sit on the prickly edge of a stubble field
