The stillness of a windless February day in England is a stillness unlike any other. Even the most stirring of places becomes a sensory underload, sound deadened by the absence of birdsong, colours diluted like too-thin water paints, no breeze to carry scents, no leaves to decorate the woodland. Gorse splashes its yellow blotches on to the clifftops but carries no fragrance, its delectable musk scent absent yet for another month or two. Gulls’ cries sound forlorn and lonely, the occasional rasp of a jackdaw only serves to accentuate the stillness. If a skylark takes flight, its song is truncated, a burst of panic more than a trill of joy.…