“Nature”, in this context, does not mean everything.

The most wonderful sound, among all sounds, might be a moment in Beethoven, or a Billie Holliday tune, or a bagpipe piping something sad in the open air. Who could choose the finest from among all the glories of music?

Or the most wonderful sound might be the voice of your new bride or bridegroom or your baby, giggle-gurgling for the first time, that might sound like the most marvellous sound you have ever heard.

Some people adore the sound of Formula One - the cars revving up on the grid - or the roar of the crowd at a great stadium like Murrayfield Park, or the ringing of cash-tills or the tramp of a mighty army on the march.

But, although these sounds are all part of Nature, what is here meant by “nature” is what naturalists observe, the so-called natural world (on land, in Britain). And, given these restrictions, one would be hard pushed indeed to come up with a sound finer than that given out by the curlew.

Our largest wading bird, brown in colour with a distinctive long down-turned bill, the curlew gets its name from the melancholy “coor-li” sound it makes; this is a glorious noise but merely the background to the songs mainly heard in spring when the male birds accompany their claims to breeding territory with an incredible range of bubbling, trilling songs of joy and sadness which can only give rise in the heart of a listener to enhanced feelings of belief in the mystery and depth of life itself.

To hear the curlew - also known as the whaup - is to receive an equivalent impression to that given by a huge and beautiful, utterly clear, starry sky. There is no sound like that of a curlew - often best heard on a lonely moor (which helps) - for filling the heart of a human with awe and with delight. The finest sound in nature, according to me.