In a monotone world, snow disappearing into still water, there appears a tight swell of movement, full of languid force. Indistinct dark splashes are more often than not a far-off cormorant diving repeatedly for food, but, as the streak loops and circles, my confidence grows that maybe this time it is an otter.  

The hills on the other side of the loch fade as the drift of falling snow deepens. Perspective drifts with it, small or far away becoming blurred so that the twisting shape could be two otters – until it lifts its head and upper body out of the water in a periscope motion, returning a sense of scale. Eventually it submerges fully and I walk in the direction given by its wake, my boots scraping too noisily on stonechips, stilling steps and body in a pantomime freeze each time the otter emerges closer to the shore.

I make it onto the strip of tide-swept grass, free of snow and soft enough to quieten my feet. The grass leads towards an outcrop of basalt which tumbles into a handful of boulders, dark and proud of the pale loch. I am a cold statue as the otter swims towards them, silhouetted oh-so briefly on the surface, before vanishing into the rocks.

Two, three, slow steps. Two, three, more. Every cell alert and leaning towards the creature I imagine to be on the other side of the stone. Another two steps. Poised in expectant motion. Then

Low rumble of a male voice. I hesitate briefly, then step up onto the rock. Through the curtain of snow and branches I can just see two hooded bodies standing at the bank of the wee bay beyond. As I teeter with decision a car alarm goes off – not mine, must be theirs. I give the otter up for lost and turn back, crunching heavily along the shore back to my own car.

I am always on at my children to share nicely, to think of others, to be kind. It is not until I am driving away that it occurs to me that I could have continued to walk towards the people by the loch, whoever they were. Our pincer approach combined with the car alarm may have sent the otter melting away into the water, but what would we have gained – or given – by talking to each other about it?

My experience of nature as it relates to writing is, on the whole, a solitary affair: the ‘lone enraptured male’ so prevalent in nature writing setting a tone for much that followed. While new voices and narratives have emerged in recent years, the form is still predominantly of a single author relaying their own experiences, observations, or understanding of the living world. Some write from the clear self of first-person, others in the quietly human third, while Kathleen Jamie’s use of second-person in Surfacing goes someway to counter this solitude, her ‘you’ reaching out to bring the reader along with her and opening her words outwards. However, no matter the twists and turns of technique, the process of writing tends towards the innate perspective of the author. Or, so I thought.

Then there was Foundle, created by Tanya Shadrick, Jo Sweeting and Louisa Thomsen Brits. I had watched a little of the project’s development via Instagram, slight glimpses into the experience of the growing friendship of three women and its creative flow, in which ‘chance, skill, and intent triangulate to form art’. The emotive strength of their three-fold depiction lies in the balance and attention that each gives to the other and their work: ‘A triangle of women, the strongest shape, the weight of our attention evenly spread. Touching, listening, conjuring collective purpose.’ The idea of new bonds and collaboration was beautiful to see, and to me seemed so very brave. If I imagined myself taking part in such an endeavour, I became petrified, a stony fear creeping out from my centre until my limbs were stilled.

It was that same stone that turned me away from the couple on the shore. It is likely that they saw the otter too, rumbled their car to a stop and crept slowly towards the lochside, cameras poised, hoping to capture the moment, to make it theirs. I had wanted that moment too, senses alive to light and movement in the hope of etching its lines onto my memories, to be reformed in words at some unknown later date. I had not wanted to share.

But, there is something else here now. A testing of the stone. The possibility of a new way of carving words. I am no longer wondering about the missed opportunity of seeing the otter up close; instead, I wonder at the missed opportunity to become ‘we’.

With thanks to Tanya Shadrick, Jo Sweeting and Louisa Thomsen Brits: https://www.littletoller.co.uk/the-clearing/foundle-by-tanya-shadrick-jo-sweeting-and-louisa-thomsen-brits/