I HEARD a shriek and flew from my bed in terror, taking out my table lamp and slamming my arm against the chest of drawers.

Part of me assumed I was going to die a gruesome and dramatic death.

It came as a surprise and, if I’m honest, a bit of a let down when I realised the shrieking noise was just my phone.

Apparently I had managed to set the ringtone to ‘terrify’.

In a fog of confusion I turned to my alarm clock – it was early.

Not early enough to shock a hardcore birdwatcher.

Probably not quite early enough to anger or surprise parents of demanding kids.

But it was Early Enough.

This had better not be phone sales people, I thought, while rubbing the bruise forming on my elbow.

I checked the number - it was my boss - so I dialled back.

A split second passed and then: “There’s a fire in Dalton! A really big fire!”

“A fire?”

“A fire!”

“Where?”

“In Dalton. I’m meeting Scott (a fellow journalist at the Gazette) in 20 minutes so he can go down there - I can’t believe you were asleep!”

The line went dead and I was left in the quiet of my new Kendal room, the first rays of the morning sun shining in and the birds twittering.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I moved to the town last month, hoping to swap the daily commute up the M6 for an extra 40 minutes of peace.

Instead, I’ve experienced all manner of novel noise.

Firstly, people chatter more enthusiastically here than in any other town I’ve ever known.

Then there’s the operatic owl, which has opted to roost in the tree adjacent to my room; there are the neighbours who vacuum clean their carpets and walls in the dead of the night, and my boss – who apparently does not sleep but instead remains tuned to all news outlets on a 24-hour basis.

South Lakeland might be a rural area - but don’t be misled. It’s not quiet.

And apart from being woken with a sense of imminent death, I wouldn’t have it any other way.