“You can hear someone hammering a fence post for a mile here, or the cry of a calf or a lamb,” he says. When I point it out to Seán Clarke, a farmer and part-time guide I’ve arranged to meet for a walk through the trees and the forest’s archaeological treasures, he smiles. It feels like audio made in a recording studio. The pines and spruce and mosses and blanket bog here, together with the bowl-shaped depression in which Davagh Forest Park sits, all seem to contribute to this unearthly soundscape. A hen harrier floats over an old shed with a rusting, corrugated roof, and when I park my car in a forest in the thick of County Tyrone, the door shuts with a beautifully muffled thump. The first thing that strikes me is the silence.ĭriving from Dublin to Davagh has been a journey from city to villages, motorways to country roads, from four bars of phone reception to - depending on the hollow I’m entering - zero bars.
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