‘Just seen this’ came the message, accompanied by a still photograph, a screenshot from a video, of some dry, shriveled up, brown plants in front of some generic green foliage and the water of the river behind, just the odd group of bubbles in the right-hand corner. Despite this rather nondescript photograph I knew exactly what Lee had seen. Otter. Over the last couple weeks an otter had started to be seen regularly once more along this stretch of the river in Thetford, from Nuns Bridges to Button Island. A month or so ago, Lee had encountered a female with cubs in the dark when walking back home with the dog.
This however was 9.30 on a Sunday morning.
On his return home, I grabbed my camera, poured the remnants of my coffee into a travel mug and drove the short distance to Nuns Bridges. From here I headed off along the path towards town. I constantly scanned the river, eyes scrutinising the tangle of branches and bushes, and the carpet of wet leaves along both banks. A piercing whistle breaks my concentration briefly and I smile as the blue flash of the ever-present kingfisher zooms away. On reaching Button Island I turn round, heading back for the car, a little more despondent in my step. I knew there is always the risk the otter would have moved on, but I had secretly hoped it would hang around long enough for me to catch up.
Rain drops from the overnight downpour still drip from the leaves and branches into the river below, creating concentric rings of ripples, with a gentle plishing sound.
Something makes me stop near a little sign. I smile again as a memory of my little Robyn always pointing to this sign and the carving of mute swans on it. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of bubbles. Not bubbles from rain drops this time, but bubbles coming from beneath the water. Disturbed silty mud drifts under the surface. Something is down there. I stop and hold my breath. The bubbles and silt move in wiggly patterns as whatever is down their turns around on itself. Then a head pops up and I breath out a quiet gasp of delight. Otter. Right under my feet. She looks up at me and we stare at each other for the briefest of moments. Then the head disappears.
I can follow her now. Watching the patterns of bubbles and silt and anticipating where she might reappear. I say she. But I do not know for sure. The otter looks rather small but could well be a young male.
I keep following. She spends ages circling around under the tangle of branches on the far bank, reappearing every so often with another morsel of food, crunching it between her teeth. She occasionally moves into the middle of channel, rolling around, tail whipping from side to side, as she wrestles some food item before subduing it and chewing enthusiastically, before returning to the sides to forage. More than once I watch her pull herself onto the bank, stopping briefly in her mission, watching, listening, resting, before diving back under the water once more and continuing her search.
She is still foraging in the same part of the river when I take my leave a short while later, feeling privileged to have shared just part of her day.
Wild Barley 