The cheep, cheep, cheep of a cricket in the grass is the quintessential sound of summer.
As I crunch over heathland in search of the elusive insect, the song fills the air, as if conjured up by a magician.
My companion, Mike Coates, the warden here at RSPB Farnham Heath, beams with delight.
Earlier, before setting out for the reserve, he'd warned me that the insects are rare, and might not perform on cue.
"It's not so much looking, we're going to be listening mostly for the sound of male field crickets chirruping in order to attract a mate," he explained, over a mug of tea in the staff portacabin.
"It's just a brilliant noise. It's like summer translated into sound - it's fantastic."
Silent summer
The song of the field cricket was once a familiar soundtrack on the heaths and grasslands of south east England.
However, the sound has fallen silent in many parts of the country.
The 18th Century naturalist, Gilbert White, wrote of "field-crickets shrill on the verge of the forest" in his diaries.
As I crunch over heathland in search of the elusive insect, the song fills the air, as if conjured up by a magician.
My companion, Mike Coates, the warden here at RSPB Farnham Heath, beams with delight.
Earlier, before setting out for the reserve, he'd warned me that the insects are rare, and might not perform on cue.
"It's not so much looking, we're going to be listening mostly for the sound of male field crickets chirruping in order to attract a mate," he explained, over a mug of tea in the staff portacabin.
"It's just a brilliant noise. It's like summer translated into sound - it's fantastic."
Silent summer
The song of the field cricket was once a familiar soundtrack on the heaths and grasslands of south east England.
However, the sound has fallen silent in many parts of the country.
The 18th Century naturalist, Gilbert White, wrote of "field-crickets shrill on the verge of the forest" in his diaries.