On the footpath from Winchelsea to Rye, the one that goes inland and round in a long loop, we came across a small copse of trees in the corner of a field, by a heavy metal gate. The spot was rural, but not remote. Weekend voices of people visiting a nearby farm wafted over, between the baa-ing of sheep and lambs, and the melodic callings of woodland birds. 
Before opening the gate, we stood, to take in the air. We could feel it, the quietness. Each tree, top against the blue sky, revealed it too, through the presence of the spring breeze. Of its warmths and flowings. They stood together. They made the place feel spacious. Gave out warm susurating qualities. Amplified the landscape, and its everyday aural qualities. We attached the microphones to one of the trees, and walked on, to let them capture the quiet for a while alone. 
As they did, they captured the singing birds. The hum of insects, the grazing sheep and lambs. The propeller planes, high up, with panoramic views of the sea. They heard the cracklings of the drying twigs amongst the dense leaf litter. All the things that happen as time passes in a country place when there's nobody about. They heard  a squirrel exploring, and later jumping, through the branches of the microphone tree. And quietest of all, and right at the end, they caught the distant passing calls (extreme right of scene) of a cuckoo. 
-- Cuckoos are the most fleeting of England's migrant birds spending only about three weeks here to lay their eggs, before flying back to Africa, They never get to see their chicks, but still the young birds once fledged still manage to follow their parent back to the same place in Africa.