We went for a walk. Last out the door, I patted the dog and set out across the fields.

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As soon as we went passed the last house and into the first field you could feel the wind. Pushing at us, passing all around us, pressing clothes to bodies. Dipping our heads down ( in defence? Respect?) And the noise, roaring across the ears. I pull my wooly hat down lower over my ears, a gesture only.

As we went into the next field, I could hear the voices of children playing football in Fleckney, carried by the roar, in the roar, over distant hedges, other fields, finding me here. But we keep walking and the sound is gone.

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Roaring noise

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Yesterday I took a slow stroll with some friends and our children to the top of Beacon Hill in North Leicestershire. Sheltered by some rocks for tea and biscuits then went to look out over Leicestershire from the trig point. The wind was incredible – I put my hood up to cover my ears somewhat but still the roar was there and constantly pushing, touching everything. It felt fantastic.

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