It’s just after 7am on a quiet stretch of the River Stour. The sun is low, its golden light spilling across the glassy water. The only sounds are rustling reeds and a distant wood pigeon.
Then, it happens.
A piercing “peep-peep” breaks the stillness. A glimmer of electric blue zips past the riverbank. A kingfisher, in all its iridescent glory, lands silently on a low branch over the river.
For a few seconds, the world holds its breath. Then—splash—it dives and reemerges, prize in beak: a tiny, wriggling fish.