Night Watch at Fen Drayton Lakes: A Love Letter

Photo credit: Erik Christensen

I sit at the reed bed edge, feet drawn up barely clear of the water, invisible, or not too alien, hoping to blend in. The air is saturated with scents: plants, Ouse ooze, the traces of unknown creatures. My odour must be strong to the locals whose voices and furtive movements startle me in the deepening dusk as I try to quell my fears of the unknown. I must be a little crazy. Everyone said it or made it all too plain in their eyes as I emerged unperfumed from the shower to assemble my gear in the warm kitchen.    

My hunter’s kit: lined waterproof cape, hat, walking boots, torch, mobile, compass, snack bars, a full flask of tea. Lastly, my car keys on the enamel keyring I bought on impulse, little knowing it would breed an obsession. My husband grinned, kissed me, wished me good hunting. Now I crouch here, undetectable to human eyes at least, my eyes adapted to the falling dark, my ears attuned to the murmurings, rustlings, calls familiar and eerie, to the reedy enclave in which I hide.

I focus on the water, barely rippled in the light breeze, glimmering, dark, mysterious. Insects drop and fish rise, leaving delicate kisses on the water’s surface. But I am not deceived. I am seeking nothing but these lakes’ top predator. I found its spraint two days ago, unlike any other, inexplicably fragrant, and five teardrop-toed tracks where it left the water to search for food, or a mate, or simply a place to rest.

Four slow hours have passed. Eyes weary, legs and feet almost numb, I consider ending my vigil. But then: no sound, but a change in the dark water, a subtle rippling just metres away. I hold my breath, not daring to hope. This time, for the first time, it is here. A water spirit, a broad seal-like skull, a glimpse of a rump, all else submerged. I exhale from necessity, and its head turns towards me, eyes alert, inquisitive.

For mere seconds we stare, woman to otter, otter to woman. I send my longing across the water. My admiration. My love. It shows no fear, but it dives, sleek, sinuous, supple, sensuous as silk. Its tail rises briefly, long, rounded, like a casual salute. The lake expands briefly into ripples, rings of light and dark. Now only a long chain of bubbles remains. And then they, too, dissolve and are gone. My eyes are wet, but I am the happiest I have ever been.

Barbara Grafton

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