As I listened, I heard the first sound - the hoot of an owl from the direction of the ponds, then the distant bark of a dog. And I saw the faint, far glimmer of a storm-lantern from a neighbouring farm. These small sounds and sights seemed only to emphasise the stillness.
I came to love the stillness. I found too that never before had I really appreciated the full moon or the light of the stars. After the first few nights, I began to hear many small sounds underlying the silence. I heard sometimes the high squeak of a bat, and the rustle of the leaves on the sycamore trees. I could even hear the breathing of a cow in the field below, and sometimes the stamping of one of the horses, and the plodding of its big hooves as it came to drink at the trough a few yards away from my window.
Sometimes there was a stir in the goose house, or amongst the hens, or the sudden croak of the frogs from the ponds.
But not always were the nights so peaceful. Often the sky would seem filled with planes, for we were quite near an aerodrome, and though we rarely heard bombs, we sometimes heard the crash of a plane, and the blast would sweep through the trees and rattle the windows.
Often, too, there would be sudden disturbance amongst the stock - usually in the night! About three weeks after my arrival, Mr. Pick opened my bedroom door about 2 o'clock one morning, and said, 'Mary, I don't know if you are interested, but the red cow is dying out in the field.'
We looked from my window, to find that she had indeed dies, and Mr. Pick was coming back in.
On nights when the moon was bright, I loved to look from my window, across the sleeping fields to the trees which seemed always alert and awake. I liked to watch the bats swoop over the farm roof, dip almost to the ground, and rise again to disappear into the night. Or to see a barn owl - a light shape floating slowly over the fields and sailing low over the hedges, its powerful wing-beats making not a sound.
Night in the country had its disadvantages, of course. He long country lanes without lamps were not very pleasant in dark and fog, and I did not like that part of it. Cycling in the night in driving snow is difficult, but it is exhilarating this I quite enjoyed.
I never really got used to the sudden snort of a horse or a cow over a hedge in the dark, and sometimes nearly fell off my bike when it happened.
Oil lamps, too, were a source of bother at times. I had a few singed eyebrows before I learnt the art of blowing them out. Though they went out easily enough at some times! Setting off upstairs to bed, the down-draught on the stairs would put out the little oil lamp, and I would have to grope my way down again and find the matches, and begin again. I would strike a match, and burn my fingers trying to lift up the hot lamp glass. As likely as not, by the time I got if off the match would go out.
However, after a few of these experiences I learnt to always have matches and a torch where I could find them in the dark, and I was then equal to most emergencies.
Much is written about the glamour of candle-light, but it is not so glamorous to try to powder your nose by the light of one small candle! If the candle is behind you, your face is in shadow. If the candle is in front, you get scorched if you go near enough to see what you are doing!
The lack of good light bothered me much more than the lack of running water. After all, you could have just as good a wash in rain-water as you could in water from a tap - provided you first strained out all the little wriggling worms and mosquito larvae, etc., and if you did not mind the deep green colour of it.