High tide on a winter’s morning on the Humber estuary. The pale grey sea has swept in over the vast expanse of mudflats, swamping most of them, but leaving a few patches still exposed. 

On these muddy and grassy islets at Paull Holme Strays, hundreds of wading birds are hunkering down against the fearsome wind howling off the Humber. They appear as tiny shapes from my blustery vantage point just past the lighthouses, at the end of the footpath along the shore.

Suddenly, they take flight: the lapwings first, screeching alarm calls as they wheel and tumble through the air on their rounded, black and white wings.

A second or two later, there’s a mass take-off by hundreds of knot: waders with white bellies and pointed wings, twisting this way and that in tight formation - like a starling murmuration - as they swoop low over the water. 

After a few shimmering turns, they plunge and land on a different patch of grey mud. The whole crazy, spectacular episode – recorded as I struggle to brace my camera and telephoto lens against the buffeting wind - has taken less than a minute from start to finish.

Synchronised wader flights like this are often a defence mechanism, designed to confuse a predator. I can’t be sure what triggered this one, although a little earlier I spotted a marsh harrier – a large bird of prey that could easily kill a lapwing or knot - patrolling close to the shore on slow, powerful wing beats. 

The Humber Estuary is one of the most important sites in Britain for waders and waterfowl, providing a haven for 150,000 birds, which flock here in winter to find rich pickings among the many millions of marine worms, molluscs and other invertebrates on the intertidal mud flats. 

On a winter’s day like this, Paull Holme Strays echoes with the hauntingly melodic cries of curlews – birds I’m more used to hearing 90 miles inland, in their summer breeding grounds on Pennine moorlands.

These magnificent waders have suffered appalling declines over recent decades: the number of curlews wintering in the UK has dropped by more than 25% in 25 years, and they’re now officially classed as vulnerable to extinction in Europe. It’s a similar, alarming story with lapwings, whose numbers have fallen by 55% since the 1960s.

It’s one of the reasons why Yorkshire Wildlife Trust has been determined to protect the precious environment of Paull Holme Strays, successfully opposing an application to turn a nearby site into a caravan park because of fears that visitors could disturb birds and animals. 

This 105-hectare reserve is certainly teeming with wildlife: a flock of around a dozen goldfinches twittering as they bounce jauntily through the air above the saltmarsh; teal and wigeon dabbling in the water channels; reed buntings perching in the trees near the car park; blackbirds scoffing berries.

I’m walking along the flood bank – a grassy mound designed to protect the surrounding low-lying land from the marauding sea – when I spot a roe deer cantering across the saltmarsh. While I’m admiring its effortless grace, I’m distracting by a white shape flying in the opposite direction – a little egret.

When I return to the windy spot where I saw the mass flight of lapwings and knot, the view has changed dramatically. 

In the couple of hours since I was last here, the sea has retreated, leaving a flat, muddy landscape etched with treacherous gullies carved out by the force of the tides. Like the rest of this wild place, they’re a testament to the sheer, elemental power of Nature.

A local tells me he used to see roe deer running across these mudflats, but not any more: the gullies appear to be getting wider and deeper, and the animals seem reluctant to risk crossing them.

I can make out hundreds of footprints, though: tracks left by waders as they crisscross the muddy expanse searching for food. 

Some of the busiest feeders are the redshanks, their bright orange-red legs bringing a splash of colour to a rapidly greying scene as they skitter over the mudflats in the fading light on this short winter’s day.

Shadowy outlines appear in the dark sky above the boats sailing on the estuary – flocks of lapwings and curlews swirling through the gloom before dropping down and landing on the shore.

Twinkling lights appear around the Humber – a reminder that, although Paull Holme Strays is undeniably wild, it isn’t remote: it’s right next to the UK’s busiest trading estuary; there’s a massive chemical park just ten minutes’ drive away, and you can be in the centre of Hull in 20 minutes.

It’s time to pack up and walk back to the warm refuge of my car. But, before I go, Nature has one final trick up her sleeve. 

A rosy glow seeps into the sky over the far bank of the Humber. Just above the water, the sun appears as a flaming, yellow ball. The gunmetal grey clouds are suddenly suffused with rich hues of pink, orange and gold.

In little more than five minutes, the spectacular sunset is over: the sun sinks below the horizon, bringing to an end a short but memorable winter’s day at this extraordinary place where the land, sea and sky come together.