It is just after sunrise on this stretch of the Spey. To the east, the Cairngorm mountains are hidden by a banner of mist, but for one cresting hilltop that catches the sun. The sky’s colours deepen from palest green at the ridgeline, through milky opal, to china blue above. Just below my path, the river swells into a pool so wide and slow that it seems to have forgotten the tug of the sea. Today it is perfectly still, a polished mirror to the vaulting sky, a dancefloor for the waterbirds that skid across its surface.
There is singing. All of the birds, all at once. The pips and slides of the various tits, the chaffinch repeating itself, the holler of geese, the thrush with its coloratura stunts, the oystercatchers peeping like tiny trucks reversing, the woodpecker’s percussion.
