Preparing curry paste ready for lunch the following day, I looked out of the kitchen window to catch a glimpse of the most gloriously deep red winter sunset. Normally, if I hadn’t been up to my elbows in garlic and garam masala, I’d be outside with my camera enjoying every subtle colour change until the sky darkened to black. Note to self, I thought, don’t miss out again. Get up early tomorrow and catch the sunrise. Oh, and take the camera with you…

Arriving at Hen Reedbeds, I was a little disappointed to see another car already there. This sounds really anti-social, but I love it best when I’m the only person at the reedbeds as I can feel truly relaxed and tuned totally into my surroundings. The person was a photographer, so I made sure I stayed out of his way as I felt he was there to capture the sunrise and not my bobble-hatted silhouette. I settled myself down in the grass out of view facing a watercolour-washed Walberswick Church across the estuary, and was content to watch the birds go about their morning duties on the mudflats rather than walk any further.

The sun just began to peel into view over the horizon when I saw what I thought may have been a couple of foxes running nose to tail along the edge of the river channel. But they have such short legs, and they are rolling along, like a rhythmic, sinuous, gymnast’s ribbon.

Otters!

They poured themselves from the muddy bank into the water, upsetting some widgeon, and effortlessly flowed upriver, turning into Wolsey Creek towards me. I think it was probably because I was hidden within the wet grass, quiet and still, that the otters didn’t detect me. I watched in disbelief. I could barely breathe, my heart felt as if it were lodged in my throat. After all these years of looking, watching, hoping… I’ve seen just one otter before at the reedbeds. I’ve studied their tracks in the mud and their grassy paths, smoothed by wet furry bellies and webbed feet, and looked for their spraint. I’ve imagined I’ve heard them, chased shadows in the water, watched for bubbles. But nothing until today, when I was gifted two. Two perfect, beautiful, liquid creatures.

They swept straight past me leaving a gentle wake, their progress through the water marked with a small trail of bubbles. I am sure they noted my presence with a quick turn of the head, but continued on to a bend in the creek where I thought they might arrive back on land. The first otter climbed the river wall and down into the reeds, urgently calling for the other to follow. After a few seconds (but it felt like minutes), the second otter, clearly not in a hurry, joined the first and together they melted into the reeds.

An otter sunrise. What a wonderful treat.