I march around Durham with a confidence that turns out to be misplaced. Rounding a bend in the river, the ground suddenly loses all its traction.
‘Whoaaaaaaaaaaaa!’
We skid to a stop, thankfully still upright. The sun hasn’t touched this part of the river and the path is solid ice.
Laughing at the near miss, a glint of blue on the river catches our eyes.
‘Was that a kingfisher?!’
‘That’s what I thought too!’
Neither of us has seen a kingfisher before. We tiptoe to the edge of the bank and stand in silence, waiting. I gasp. ‘There!’ A streak of impossible blue darts out from cover. A kingfisher. Wings going ten to the dozen, slender beak on proud display. Then, gone.
We start to walk slowly along the bank again, passing a couple looking across to the far side of the river. ‘Are you looking for the kingfisher?’ I ask. ‘Yeah,’ the man replies with obvious delight, not tearing his eyes from where it was last seen, his partner smiles patiently. We wish them good luck and continue on our way.
Colour is such a vivid part of recollection, we hold on to the blues and greens, the silver and gold. I know years from now I’ll still remember that fleck of implausible, iridescent blue, like it was yesterday.
