The Serious Business of Existence

I took off on the bike for my officially sanctioned daily exercise. I think cycling is safe. I tried not to stop, which meant I had no contact with anyone or anything from start to finish. On the back road to Bolton Abbey, there were loads of people out on their bikes, but mostly riding on their own. It was odd not to see any groups, just a few couples. The further I got out from Ilkley, the fewer riders I saw. There weren't many vehicles on the road either. Beyond Burnsall, through Arncliffe, into the Dales proper, both almost dried up completely. Malham was a ghost village. Back through Airton, a few vehicles and people started to show up again. 

Malham Moor felt eerie. It's a quiet place at the best of times, but this was something else altogether. I stopped on the sharp hairpin descent to Darnbrook House and listened. It wasn't silent. The lapwings were in fine voice. A few sheep were munching away in the pastures beside the road. But despite those natural sounds filling the air, even in this remote spot, it was preternaturally quiet. This was silence as I've never previously known it.

It proved impossible to understand at the time and I'm struggling to describe the feeling now. Is there always an imperceptible background hum of human activity that we only notice once it goes missing? Even the farms seemed to be on lockdown. I looked to the sky, containing barely a wisp of cloud, and there was not a contrail to be seen. I've spent countless hours roaming the wild places of England and have never experienced such a strange sense of quiet. It was unsettling.

Nothing is as it was. Everything is changing. Existence has suddenly become a very serious business.