The parish church of St Mary, Gilston in Hertfordshire dates from the 13th century. It is set within wide open farmland north of Harlow. It's one of only a handful of buildings, surrounded on all sides by fields and outcrops of old trees, left behind from when the land was cleared for farming. As we walked along the narrow lane away from Eastwick, thickly verged and wafting with spring flowers, we listened as the noise from the A414 gradually subsided behind us, and dwindled with each turn in the lane, until at last it was nothing.
It was then that we felt real quiet, and heard the skylarks. High and rising over the fields, slowly circling on the warm updrafts. Singing out that from up there they could see whole fields of yellow. 
The porch entrance to St Mary's has two wooden benches. A stack of second-hand books, parish notices pinned to the board, warnings to would-be heritage thieves, dog bowls full of water for passing pooches and a box of hand-drawn pathway maps, free to take away. It is the perfect spot to stop and take in the atmosphere. The sound of a sleepy rural church, adorned with sedately cooing wood pigeons basking on its sun warmed slates. 
The sound of the overgrown churchyard with its gravestones surrounded by a carpet of cowslips, looking up to be read. Chaffinches and seesawing great tits in full voice from all over, hidden in the hedgerows.
At the far end of the churchyard, just before the fields start, a fir tree sways in the breeze. Jovial. Breathing in the wind. Home to a gloriously country-toned blackbird, who flew back to sing for a while.

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