SUMMER time and the living was easy.

Otis cruised around his domain feeding as he went. Sometimes travelling far overland to the expanse of carp ponds on the Freeman Estate, which was renowned for its large fish, now fully active after their dormant period during the winter months.

Otters were always bad news to trout farms and carp ponds, and were not tolerated at any cost.

Like many predators they would often kill for killings sake when prey was available in large numbers, an instinctive mode called ‘surplus killing’.

Of course surplus killing in a carp pond meant lost profits to the owners, especially when anglers paid expensive rates to fish there.

Big loud dogs, security lights, and a load of buckshot deterred any unwelcome visitors to this private estate whether human or animal.

Otis didn’t need to risk life or limb to catch a carp dinner, as the River Rush could supply all his dietary needs right now from ells, pike and perch to crayfish, ducks and rats.

Rats virtually took over much of the river bank during the summer months, killing or pushing out the dumpy, passive native water voles from their burrows.

The brown rat (rattus norvegieus). Alien to our shores, unwanted and unloved, due to the colossal amount of damage and destruction wreaked upon our foodstuffs and property.

A parasitical nuisance spreading diseases such as salmonella and the dreaded weils disease or ‘yellows’ as it was known as.

Government departments wage a constant war on rats but only manage to keep them at bay, as the breed at an incredible rate, and the old adage ‘you are always only ten foot away from a rat’ is most certainly true.

They live anywhere and eat almost anything, a survivor against all odds.

Without our birds and beasts of prey, we would be overrun with rats. Ironically domestic varieties of the rat make excellent children’s pets, being very intelligent and rewarding to keep.

Otis, like many human counterparts who had plenty of everything, seemed to hanker after something else.

Not because they needed it but because it was slightly taboo, maybe, or wad hard to obtain, just out of reach, a challenge, adding excitement to their easy lives.

But for Otis it was no challenge, it was just another food source on his travels, like a late night cafe on a long journey.

He easily avoided the guard dogs, and used the shadows to skirt the beam of the lights.

He then slipped silently into the still water of the first lake on the Freeman Estate. One of the big cosseted carp was easily caught by the otter taken to shore and carried off to a nearby copse, to be eaten at leisure.

He was observed by an astute fox, one of last year’s litter, now independent, an itinerant watchful and wary, as all wild folks are.

The fox eventually moved off, to check out some rabbit warrens not risking a confrontation with the much more powerful otter.

The occasional carp loss wouldn’t push the Freeman Estate to bankruptcy but the backbone and remains of a carp found next day by the security staff boded ill for Otis and his kind.

Traps were set around the lakes, baited with ells, these mostly caught mink, which partially doused the rage vented by mister Joseph freeman over the loss of his stock.

He was a businessman, so as far as he was concerned, every dead otter, mink or heron meant more fish left in his ponds.

More day tickets for more anglers, and more money in his already bulging bank account.

But quite often natural instincts can outwit modern state of the art technology, as many people have found out to their cost.

The day of the fishing match peg allocation had arrived and Ray Watson had drawn number eight, he would have preferred sever, lucky seven they called it, but that’s the way it goes, so he pondered on how to turn it to his advantage.

His dog Starfish tilted his head to one side as Ray spoke out loud “who dares wins Star – who dares wins”.

He said, and Starfish wagged his tail in agreement.

Chris Kemp on the other had been having some lunch with his grandson Billy.

They sat around the big Elwood kitchen table, Chris relating tales of the riverbank to the boy.

Tales of otters, of tall grey herons and of massive pike, fully two metres long. Pike who would pull ducks, moorhens and once even a small dog under the surface of the old flooded gravel pit to t watery grave below.

Billy was captivated by these stories, and was looking forward to their outing at the weekend, a quest to find where otters had been, and hopefully a glimpse of that grey sentinel like bird, the heron.

Also Billy wanted to that legendary part of the river known as ‘The Black Hole’ a vortex, a whirlpool of unknown power, rumoured to swallow up fishing tackle, old tyres and even small boys.

Saturday soon came round and Billy was up, dressed and ready to leave by 7.30am.

So after a hearty English breakfast Chris and Billy set off along the river bank, following a little worn footpath which eventually petered out into a wilder stretch of The Rush, where the cover was more dense, and a sort of quiet solitude existed, only the sound of running water could be heard.

The current played an gurgled around some exposed and exposed and worn rocks just off midstream, and Chris pointed out a lively green and yellow bird to Billy as it alighted on one of the stones. It was a yellow wagtail, a summer visitor that usually frequented the nearby water meadows in search of insects.

Billy watched, as it pumped its long tail up and down before flying off.

In a shallow part of the river where the water flowed clear Chris turned over some flat rocks to reveal a crayfish, a tasty snack for an otter.

They moved on and Chris showed Billy many things, including some otter droppings or spraint as they are called, and found an alter or otters dining area with many fish bones and scales laying around.

Then a heron lazily flew up from the reeds, its long neck folded in as it flew away, only to land a hundred yards distant and become once more lost, somewhere in the shallows.

Then Chris spied it through his binoculars, which he then handed over to Billy so he could view it as well, as once again the bird unfolded its serpentine neck, waiting with bayonet bill for any unwary fish or vole to venture near.

There is no substitute for personal observation, as Billy found out that weekend, and as he and Chris made their way back home along the winding riverbank he excitably narrated the day’s events to his grandfather.

They soon encountered scores of anglers lining the bank of the River Rush.

These were competing for the big prize money being offered, at this very popular annual fixture. Known as The Big Catch Match of The Rush.

The fishermen created a dazzling array of colours in their assorted rainproof jackets of, colours, red, blue, green and yellow but Ray Watson seemed rather drab in comparison, even his dog Starfish had a dejected look about him.

Chris noticed this sudden change in Ray’s demeanour and decided to strike up a conversation.

“Bad day at Black Rock Ray," said Chris.

Ray stiffened his body at this old quip and replied, “You win some, you lose some”.

Looking away he returned to the job at hand, the fishing match, but knowing full well that it was nearly over and he had no chance of winning with a weight in total of only 8.5 kilos.

Peter ‘The Pike’ Patterson seven pegs down from Ray already had a hefty catch of 18 kilos, chubb, roach, bream and dace churned the water in his keep net, their scales flashing like silver coins in the late afternoon sun.

What Ray Watson didn’t disclose though was how his sombre mood and dejected state had come about.

Late afternoon the day before the match, he and Starfish were reconnoitring the river, along the bank, just down from where the event was scheduled to take place.

Ray was looking for a way to swing the balance his way in winning the match, and securing the prize money, when a large Otter suddenly dropped down from its resting place, a low bough of a willow tree, unusual but an ideal vantage point for a wary Otter called Otis.

In a flash he was soon in the river but closely followed by Starfish, who was both eager and determined to do battle with him, and Ray shouted encouragement from the bank, even if little was needed.

The otter dived and allowed the brisk current to carry him downstream, rising occasionally for air and direction.

The dog, a fast, strong swimmer stayed on Otis’ course, which was taking both of them towards ‘The Black Hole’ further on, just round the bend.

Otis, a fit and powerful adult otter was familiar with every aspect of this stretch of river, but the dog too, knew every twist and turn, so wasn’t far behind the retreating otter, who was just as determined to escape the menace of his tail.

Otis headed directly towards and into the legendary ‘Black Hotel’ knowing full well the pursuing dog stood no chance within its vortex.

Otis was swept into the whirlpool, spun around and downwards into the dark depths. He had done this many times as a game, so he knew what to expect.

Starfish on the other hand had always avoided the area, sensing danger in the unknown.

However, it was too late now, as the grasping torsion effect of the whirlpool dragged the dog down and also spun him around like a cork.

This was no game though, and the dog struggled to cope, as he fought against drowning, his lungs bursting.

uckily he managed to follow in the wake of Otis, who was by now many yards downstream away from the unfortunate Starfish.

Starfish was also carried downstream; all his fire and enthusiasm now literally washed away, his almost lifeless body barely afloat.

The Bull Terrier in his making gave him courage, whilst the spaniel infusion lent him the water dog ability to swim well.

Combined, both these qualities, and fate, directed him to a beach like inlet of the river, where driftwood, plus flotsam and jetsam accumulated, leaving an untidy, but accessible area from the bank.

It was here that the dog ended up, dragging him onto the muddy shore before keeling over, a bedraggled, sodden, brown and white figure in need of some urgent attention.

Ray Watson ran up and down the river bank shouting, and calling for his dog Starfish.

He feared the worst, especially as he passed ‘The Black Hole’ where the water gyrated and swirled angrily, as if concealing a river monster within its depths. All thoughts of ‘match fixing’ left his mind as he frantically searched for his beloved dog.

Suddenly Ray spotted him, laying prose and dishevelled in the muddy inlet.

He ran to the dog, sinking, ankle deep in the mud, then gently gathered Starfish up into his arms and carried him onto the bank.

Ray coaxed the water from the dog’s lungs, then wrapping him in his coat, made the long journey back home, and cursing ‘The Black Hole’, cursing otters and anything else he could think of.

After some hours laying by the fire, and with the help of warm milk and brandy Starfish rallied round, damp, weak, but still alive, the bright spark of life slowly returning.

As for Otis, well after leaving the river of adventure, he shook himself, rolled dry in the grass and headed for one of his ‘holts’ a laying up area deep within the roots of an old willow, not far from the water’s edge.

There he slept coiled up like a dog, tail around his face, until that magic time of dusk, when he ventured out, uttered his flute-like whistle, then foraged along the river and surrounding areas for fish and small rodents that were the mainstay of his diet.

That autumn he found a mate a shy female called Futra, and together they played their game of courtship.

The river echoed to their calls, whistles, grunts and ‘chitterling’, as they swam, dived and courted along their stretch of river where they fed royally on migrating ells that were making their way to the sea.

Eventually in early spring Futra gave birth to three health cubs, whom she taught the ways of the river.

Both parents brought them food until capable to hunt for themselves.

They stayed with Futra, but Otis then left, a wanderer once more.

The call of the wild being the strongest call of all.