Here comes summer, hurtling around a bend in the river. A common sandpiper, all the way from Africa, announces its arrival with sharp twee-wee-wee calls, flying with stiff, shallow wingbeats, so close to the water that it seems to be chasing its mirrored reflection. It lands on a rock, midstream, fans and stretches each wing, then settles into an eager, alert crouch, teetering on its toes until a consort arrives and they set off together, upstream.
This is the bird I most associate with this shallow, fast-flowing reach of the Wear. The river is in subdued mood this morning, its voice just a murmur as it glides past and ripples around water-smoothed boulders. Alders, coming into leaf on the riverbank, tell a different tale, of exceptional rainfall and tumultuous winter spate: flood debris is still lodged in the lowest branches of some, 10ft above today’s water surface. The receding river deposited a thick carpet of sandy silt among the trees, fertilising luxuriant new growth of aniseed-scented sweet cicely and wild garlic.
