There are plenty of big questions to ponder as I walk my dog through the Hampshire countryside: Afghanistan, the Budget, global warming and of course, should one play an i-Pod?

Depending on my mood it could be Mozart, Joy Division, the Clash, British Sea Power or Lily Allen booming into my ears as I surreptitiously do a few dance steps once checking no-one is in sight.

Since purloining my daughter’s I-Pod a few months back I have been enjoying the small pleasure of trying to walk in time to the music. Harder than you might think. It is easy to end up, well, mincing.

Of course, listening to White Man in Hammersmith Palais as I yomp across the South Downs has its attractions but it destroys one of the big pleasures of walking in the countryside – the music provided for free by the flora and fauna.

There’s the obvious birdsong, although sadly for me I’m unable to distinguish which birds are singing what. There’s the glorious skylark, the pewit and the buzzard. The buzzard is a strange one. It makes its plaintive cat’s miaow as it languidly moves about. It’s a bit like a gang of burglars prowling in an ice cream van playing Bankrobber.

Then there’s the rook, my favourite bird; part-hooligan, part-clown, part-survivor. Their raucousness is the English countryside, for me.

Now its summer the lanes and paths are alive with a symphony of noises; the buzzing of insects, the baahing of sheep and the rustle of leaves. Every tree has a different sound. The alder, which grows near streams and ponds, rustles in the slightest breeze. The oak just a few paces away stands still with barely a movement.

Holding it all together, like the bass drum of band, is the sound of my footsteps.