Dear reader...

IT IS A fresh early summer morning, and I am walking with a friend who has promised to show me where she spotted an otter only a few days before. I doubt we will be lucky enough to see this elusive creature today, but the possibility is invigorating.

We follow the path of compacted clay as it sinks into a strip of woodland. The nettles are tall and dense, twisting to reach the light. I tuck my arms in to avoid their sting, the path only wide enough to walk single file. With the canopy in full vigour, the sky above is hardly visible. We walk with purpose.

This was once industrial land, where deep pits were dug to extract clay; the sticky blue substance then transported by narrow railway to the nearby brickworks. Tall chimneys pierced the vast skies of the fen landscape, visible for miles around.

Clues to the area’s former industry remain. Incongruous under a thick hawthorn hedge, a pile of bricks is colonised by moss and lichen, almost invisible as they sink back into the earth from which they were made. I smile at the thought that these bricks, made for building homes, have fulfilled their purpose in a different way, as homes for tiny creatures and microscopic plant life.

Before long, the path opens out and sweeps down to meet a vast lake. Its margins are dense with flag iris, and a billowing meadow of wild flowers hugs one side. Skirting its edge, we walk quietly, eyes trained on the water. Dragonflies dart across the surface, and a grebe dives down, popping up, then diving again.

We sit for a while and watch intently, but there is no trace of the otter this morning. I am not disappointed though: to come to see how nature has made this place its own again is a sight in itself.