In leafless crowns of trees at the top of the bank, high above the Tees, a relentless wind clatters twigs and bends old branches until they groan. It is a relief to escape the constant buffeting and descend into the shelter of the river’s gorge, into still air heavy with woodland aromas of wet soil and decay. Ahead, a wren – furtive, wary, tail cocked – glances in my direction then vanishes among fallen leaves.
On one side of the narrow footpath, there’s a steep drop into the river; on the other, a low cliff where my line of sight is level with lichen-encrusted rock, tree roots, tangled ivy and an emerald carpet of mosses under elegant, arching fern fronds. Tiny, translucent, ephemeral toadstools digest dead leaves’ soft tissues, until only the skeleton of their veins remains.
