I think of our downland village as a dry place. One that sheds and percolates water away through underground chalk aquifers. There are little lacy streams and a narrow winterbourne, and if I look to history, there were mills. But it takes a week, bookended by a large riverine mammal, to change my perception.
On a damp Friday night, I receive a call from a friend, surprised and saddened to discover a dead otter on the lane. Did I think someone had dumped it? Close to midnight, my daughter and I find the place and the sad body of the animal killed by a fatal head wound. Below the lane is the slip of a small stream. We move the body, dignifying it as best we can, on to a bed of ivy, and the next morning I contact the Environment Agency to report our young female otter.
