Little did I know, when I mentioned the possibility of writing on travels with otters a little while back, that it might become a very sore subject so soon. However what had started as a wretched day and regressed further, ended with faith in humanity restored.
I try not to dwell too often on the impact which food intolerances can force into life. Having endured more than enough some more intensive tests recently brought a further set of restrictions in shopping lists and menus, with the dire outlook of putting the annual festive cake - 2025 version finished just a month or so ago, with 2026 due to get underway before the end of next month - at grave risk. Things are that bad.
The day started under a very dark cloud, sleep having been an absent bedfellow with the path from bedroom to sanctuary well trodden. I'll spare you the details. A morning bike ride was out of the question, but if the usual pattern followed I'd be allowed out post lunch.
We had chores to do. The wreckage of a past-its-sell-by-date self assembly unit filled the boot of the car. Off to Buckie, to the council facility. Closed Mondays. The Law of Sod, meaning an inconvenient trip on the morrow. Buckie also meant a stop at the hardware store. More padlocks, the most recent seized already, another victim to damp, salty air. Oh, and hacksaw or bolt-cutters to remove the bugger.
The afternoon plans had included a clifftop walk, down past Jenny's Well, and subject to tide times, on along the beach to Cullen, returning via the viaducts. That assumed the knee stiffness, following a long walk the previous day, might wear off; and the otter be up for it. Those plans had to change.
When preparing for these trips, and other more pleasant chores involving a certain birthday girl's wish list and the excellent bookshop in Cullen; perhaps the antique centre too, the absence of the otter was noted. Alarm bells doing what alarm bells do. Stomach churning, more than it had done earlier. Distraught.
Said otter had accompanied us the previous day. A long walk through the woods and on along Kingston's wartime defences. He was still there, following the return, after a blether with Sarah at Kingston Gelato - one chocolate and one almond croissant flavour; a seat on the bench. And joy. The taste of ice cream.
It was but the second ice cream in almost three years; a treat last tasted in Ullapool a 12 month previously. Most vegan ices use a coconut oil base, ruled out in my case. So Sarah's range of options is a welcome stop-off, though one not visited often enough after the tragedy of the Garmouth viaduct, the collapse of which means a walk or cycle from Spey Bay to Kingston remains off the agenda.
Anyway, otters it was, one in particular. Last with us on that Kingston bench the day before. I must have abandoned him. Idiot. We had better go back. Very few people, might still be there, with his bright red collar and lead. Sick to the pit of that very dodgy gut after the night that followed the day before. Otters are not easy to replace.
As it happens I had been updating some notes in the morning, before becoming aware of my loss, which mentioned Chahala, and Mijbil. The former surviving but a week; the latter the one causing chaos in a London flat before meeting that road-mender at Sandaig. Notes for events next week.
Before bringing the car to a rest it was obvious that the bench was devoid of otter, not even a spraint. A chat with Sarah, another treat. Any local facebook groups? Having disturbed her afternoon nap she quickly realised why I might be back. There was a posting, last night. An otter. She thought of me, mentioned it may have been one of her customers.
Quickly on to the group, messages left, phone number. Please. And off to the shopping chores.
Fochabers Bridge. Down to a single lane. The only road across the river for miles. Lengthy queues; long and frustrating delays. We managed through fairly quickly early and mid afternoon. Off to the bookshop, always a pleasure, though even the discerning stock at Beinn found little in common with daughter's desires. Across the road the antique centre had taken the same path as the dump. Closed Mondays, and the following two days as well. Oh well, gift shops and trinkets.
A message comes in, from Sarah. Those good folk who had taken charge of said otter the previous night and posted of it on the local group page, had responded to her, travelled to Kingston and left him in her care. For me to collect.
I could cope with Fochabers Bridge at peak hour, knowing what awaited me when I arrived at Sarah's shack. Back and forth four times in one afternoon. Other trips put back. Reunited at last; feeling so good in the hand. Joy. And faith in humanity. Good people there still are.
And there will be more travels with an otter. Hopefully with a little less stress.
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