Zoë Devlin

Chopin's Raindrop Prelude, Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee, wonderful though they are, could never replace listening to the actual sounds that inspired them.

The early morning symphony, that is the dawn chorus, must be the one outstanding sound that connects all who are mindful of the natural world, reminding us to respect and protect something that once gone can never be replaced.

I have immense sympathy for one composer who lost his hearing at quite an early age.

This was Beethoven.

He continued to create his magnificent music, echoing the remembered sounds of nature, even though from the age of 30 he could no longer hear all that inspired him.

His sixth symphony, the Pastoral, or Recollections of Country Life, was composed over a period of six years at a time when his sense of hearing was diminishing.

This outstanding work reflected his deep love of nature, depicting birdsong and the sound of flowing streams, and it echoed his passion for walking in the deep woodland of his adopted home, Vienna.

Tragically, at the age of 41, his splendid Emperor Piano Concerto had its premiere, but without Beethoven.

He could no longer play the piano in public and ceased to make public appearances.

By the time he was 44, he was completely deaf.

Beethoven was not the only composer to suffer such devastation.

Czech composer Smetana is probably best known for his work Mavelast, a musical tapestry depicting the river Vltava as it meanders through the countryside on its way to Prague.

At the age of 50, while he was writing this composition, he worked under the ever-increasing plague of whistling and buzzing caused by severe tinnitus.

Gabriel Fauré was slightly more fortunate in that he didn't begin to lose his hearing until he was in his late fifties, but at that stage his suffering caused his compositions to change considerably, becoming tempestuous and unsettling, rather than displaying the gentle charm of his earlier work.

Sadly, those three composers lived far before the arrival of two tiny miracles, modern hearing aids.

I call mine Mutt and Jeff, and I'm more than grateful for the age I live in and for the science that created them.

Although the high-pitched call of the bat has long deserted me, I can once again hear the other sounds I was missing badly.

Not just the cuckoo's call or the bumblebee's buzz, but the voices of the geese that pass over our house every winter evening in their ragged chevron, gabbling to each other, speaking words of encouragement to their fellow fliers.

I can even hear the beating of their wings as they drive themselves in a heart-stopping flypast.

When I hear screaming swifts swishing above in the high summer sky, my spirits soar with them.