I had not expected the summit to be empty, but the quiet that met me was unexpected. A small crowd sat scattered on the rocks, all facing east, waiting for the sun. They were silent, respectful, marking the midpoint of the year with stillness. Even the stonechats seemed to join in, their song fitting the moment. Then the orange line appeared, thin at first, then turning into a red orb. Peace. Until the drone came.
It wasn’t that loud, but it was persistant, impossible to ignore. Like a mosquito in your ear. The birdsong was drowned. All that was left was the buzz. An intrusion not just on the morning, but on the place itself. On Roseberry. On the solstice.
The National Trust does not generally permit drones. I doubt permission had been sought. The Civil Aviation Authority sets limits on where drones can fly, especially near people. The Countryside Code urges consideration for others. But none of this matters to those who think only of themselves.
“You do your thing, mate, this is mine,” would likely be his excuse, as if the misuse of freedom were just another lifestyle choice. As if silence were not worth protecting. As if all moments were his to claim. I wonder what the stonechats would say to that.
Noise, in whatever form, is pollution. It erodes place. It drives out life. In our national parks, at the very least, there should be a right to silence. Not complete, but enough for the land, the wildlife, and the people to breathe.
Solutions would be difficult. “Nature” is a word that slips away just when you think you have it. But respect is not.
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