A plaintive summons from the foot of a gorge calls a bullfinch to its mate. But where exactly are these shy birds? Hard enough to spot as they flit through wet woodland draped with streamers of moss and ferns obscuring all angles. Even trickier in a place where sounds bounce off the stone walls.
Water music is ever-present down here and the river streams songs according to substrate. On the soft silts and clay of the bottom there is barely a babble of brook, but through pebble beds and boulders, an aeration of chortles and glugs. After heavy rains, the flows begin to pound, reminding me of boys who drive with their windows up and the volume up higher. Thunder roars endlessly over the weir in front of a brick building where generations of deafened millers toiled.
