Every year at bluebell time, the same thought recurs: spring is slipping away. In less than two weeks it will officially segue into summer and, like the last sand grains flowing through an egg timer, these final glorious days seem to gather pace. But this is an idyllic place to while away one of them.
Downstream from Abbey Bridge, the Tees Valley Way passes through deciduous woodland, which clings to a steep bank high above the River Tees. The rocky gorge below is filled with birdsong; blackcaps, willow warblers, a song thrush, almost drowning the sound of the river. Overhead, newly expanded oak leaves are as translucent as stained glass. Along the footpath, an aroma of garlic rises from starry constellations of ramson flowers when I brush against them. Florist shop fragrance saturates the air where it passes through drifts of bluebells. Tens of thousands of flowers, all waiting for a pollinator.
