The chattering tweets of the warblers hanging from the seed heads in the rape field. First one, then another replies.
Two flies buzz in then out again through the open French windows.
Contented grunts from Vita, flat out on the tiles after a good breakfast.
Murmur of deep male voices from the veranda and the chink of butter knife on plate - Tod and a visiting friend are putting the world to rights.
As always, the summer sound of distant cow bells.
The rustle of wind in the leaves of the wisteria hanging round my study window - calmer now than yesterday's storm that tore ragged crop circles in Monsieur F's ripening winter wheat.
And the tap of the keys as I type this.