Time aside. And at rest. A quiet, leafy space. Folkestone, on the Kent coast. An area called the Warren, where forested steeps slope and tumble into the sandy wash of the sea.
It's early August 2022. A month of heat, like the south of Spain. The sun is up. The air's got that scent of another sweltering day to come. The hedgerow and the hawthorn tree holding the microphones are already hot. Turning the sun's energy into green variegated shades. And into warm leafy thermals.
As time passes, and late summer birds distantly call, a little party of beach-bound people scrunch by, scattering loose stones as they go. Straight ahead the white noise hush of the sea slightly rises, and slightly falls. So many crashing waves, smoothed to an average, by distance. From here, within this ordinary looking breeze blown hedgerow, the whole width of Folkestone beach can be heard. Witnessed. From a place called The Warren. England's edge. So close to France you can see it.