It’s uncomfortably warm on this rare, windless morning and the horizon wobbles in the heat haze. It’s uncannily quiet too: the loudest sound is an irritating squeak that comes with every step, from leather chafing in one of my boots.
Six weeks ago, when I walked this path, I was accompanied by a cacophony of dive-bombing lapwings, hysterical oystercatchers and circling, scolding curlews, all anxious for the safety of fledglings. They’ve almost all gone now, after heading back down the Wear Valley, towards the coast.
