The Otters’ Tale. Simon Cooper

much all the fish, it will look more like a cartoon fish skeleton, the left-behind bones picked clean. Otters, on the other hand, generally start from the head down, eating everything, bones and all, as they go. In the depth of winter, when food is scarce, it is unusual to find part-eaten trout – protein is too scarce. It is only really in the summer, or when the mother is teaching the pups to fish, that otters abandon a trout without finishing it off. Sometimes I have to look really hard to see whether they have been, the only evidence those few flecks of blood or bright scales similar to what I saw on that snowy morning. I suspect the otters had been robbing me blind of trout for years without me ever knowing it.

      As winter clutched at the throat of the countryside, daily squeezing every last drop of life from the less hardy inhabitants, Kuschta took to exploring her new territory. Unfettered by the constraints of other otters, she was free to move at will, marking the land along the Wallop Brook from the junction pool to the headwaters, where it is barely a river at all as the bright crystal water springs from the ground. If you flew up the valley like a bird you’d see that, despite all the apparent habitation – houses, farms, roads and all the other things that civilisation brings in its wake – the Wallop Valley is surprisingly wild. Woodland crowds up to the bank for at least a quarter of its length, hiding the river from prying eyes. Water meadows, rough-grazed by cattle and flecked with wild flowers, merge the land with the water. In some places it is just a river lost in a wetland swamp. We call this lost place downstream of the Mill The Badlands, where reed beds, crisscrossing rivulets, soft soggy ground and a scruffy, fallen willow plantation look like a terrific mess. It is rarely visited by people. Sure, there are some tidy gardens that come up to the edge of the brook in places, bits that have been adapted for things like my mill or banks that have been realigned to prevent flooding, but on the whole it is a natural stream that hasn’t changed much in the past two or three centuries.

      When we think about the history of our landscape, it is strange that otters don’t feature more in British folklore, history and culture, for they have been part of our lives since the first moment man made settlements on the banks of a river. From that time onwards, as we invaded the territory that they had called their own for millions of years, otters were amongst us but never really part of us – mysterious creatures that we saw rarely and understood even less. The inns along the highways of Britain are testament to this absence; the names The White Hart, The Black Horse, The Bear, The Swan, The Bull and even The Black Rat offer an insight to the creatures that have impinged on our culture down the centuries. But The Otter Inn? Well, there are some, but very few considering it is our largest semi-aquatic mammal.

      The more you think about it, the stranger it is. After all, otters are not exactly small; nose to tail they are close to four feet long. A fully grown male weighs around twenty-two pounds – that is heavier than a terrier or about the same as a beagle. In feline terms, think twice the weight of a healthy cat and twice the body length. And a river through a town is a much-watched place – you’d think they would hardly go unnoticed, plus you’d expect that the numerous opportunities for food would draw them into human orbit. Rats and foxes have adapted to human habitation, thriving on our detritus and finding homes that man has, by accident rather than design, created for them. But not otters. They seem to shun the opportunities afforded by man, even changing their habits to become yet more secretive.

      We think of otters as nocturnal, but they can equally be diurnal – active by day instead of night. On the south and west coast of Ireland otters regularly swim past anglers during the day; visitors are astonished, whilst for the locals it is so common as to pass unremarked. It is the same in the Scottish Isles, suggesting that where people are sparse otters are content to alter their behaviour accordingly. When they choose the night, they do it to avoid their greatest adversary – man.

      Maybe there was a time long, long ago when man and otter lived in perfect harmony. After all, nobody ever seems to suggest that otters make good eating. They were not hunted for food, unlike the slow-witted beaver who, also native and incredibly populous to Britain at one time, was hunted to extinction as soon as early man took to living in the river valleys. In fact, the only people who seemed regularly to eat European otters was a group of Carthusian monks in Dijon, France, who stretched the truth to get around some awkward theological dietary requirements. Banned by holy order from consuming meat, they cunningly deemed the otter to be a fish. Now whether this was because it ate fish or lived like a fish, nobody is exactly sure, but accounts of the time rated the flesh ‘rank and fishy’, so the monks must have been somewhat desperate.

      So aside from a few monks, maybe there was a time when the otter went about its daily life without a care in the world. A time when the fish were plentiful and the people few, when otters were free to range over huge tracts of unsettled land where the rivers were wild and the woodland dense. A time when otters feared nobody and wanted for nothing. It is a lovely thought; a sort of aquatic Garden of Eden. But if such a time ever existed it most certainly came to an end in the Middle Ages, when the population of Europe increased. Communities coalesced around rivers, the fertile valleys were gradually cleared and drained for agriculture. What was done a thousand or fifteen hundred years ago across southern England was not so very different to what is being done to the rainforests of South America today. The destruction of a habitat that slowly marginalises the indigenous species. Some will survive this change, others will become extinct. A few will become mortal enemies of man; unwelcome at best, feared at worst. The history of medieval times tells us that the otter fell into the ‘unwelcome’ category, labelled as the ‘fish-killer’, stealing food from the rivers that ‘rightfully’ belonged to the more ‘deserving’ mankind. It is a tag that remains today, but the persecution dates back many centuries.

      The more you look back, the more astonishing it is that otters have avoided extinction in the British Isles. We might think of the eradication of a species as a rather modern manifestation of human behaviour, but otters have been on the hit list for over a thousand years. Way back in the twelfth century society went to war with the otters and lutracide was born. Henry II appointed the wonderfully titled King’s Otterer, who was charged with the extermination of the species. It was no passing fad; this was serious business. With the title came a manor house, land and an annual stipend all bundled up in legislation to create the Otterer’s Fee. The first Otterer, a man called Roger Follo, from his ‘Fee’ in Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire, went about his task with a new form of otter control, namely an otter-hound pack.

      However innovative and hard-working the Honourable Follo might have been, any success must have been transitory, for by the fifteenth century Henry VI was back at it again with the creation of the Valet of our Otter-Hounds. But otters continued on their merry way until 1566, when, frustrated by their continued existence, Parliament passed the Acte for the Preservation of Grayne, which classified otters, along with badgers, foxes, hedgehogs¹ and others, as vermin, allowing parish councils to offer bounties for their capture. Sixpence, the reward for a dead otter in the early 1600s, strikes me as a lot of money and gives some indication of how otters had become a significant public enemy.

      It is interesting to ask why otters were elevated to this status. I think we can say with some degree of certainty that their fate as public mammal enemy number one was cast for the next three centuries in 1653 when Izaak Walton wrote about them in The Compleat Angler – a huge bestseller when it was first published and subsequently one of the most reprinted books of all time. He declared,

      ‘I am, Sir, a Brother of the Angle, and therefore an enemy of the Otter; for I hate them perfectly, because they love fish so well.’

      This is pretty stern stuff for an animal that carried no disease, kept clear of people and posed no physical danger. But the fact is that otters were eating the fish owned by those who held the reins of power: the monarchy, noblemen, the church and the educated. These were singularly bad groups to antagonise. Noblemen owned the rights to fish rivers, which was an important source of income and food. Fishing grounds were jealously guarded – not just physically but in law, for they were specifically mentioned in the Magna Carta. The draconian law that went as far as capital punishment was enough to keep the commoners at bay, but otters required something else. Monasteries and the palaces of bishops had for centuries reared fish in ponds, but they were difficult to protect and made tempting pickings for a hungry otter in the depths of winter. Then people such as Walton