A moorhen pattered across leathery lily pads, the ripples across the water joining those made by the rising bream catching flies, vacuuming them up from the sticky surface tension they were caught in. Apart from those ripples the water across Hoveton Great Broad was still, reflecting the fluffy, cartoon-like clouds, and abstracting the melded greens and yellows of reed, bulrush and sallow on the other side of the water. A bright blue flash appeared out of the sedge on the right hand side and then was instantly still, frozen as if captured in a photograph. The dragonfly’s four wings were blending into invisibility as they grabbed at the air holding the migrant hawker aloft in front of me, examining me with its huge, blue, orb eyes, as I examined him back. He must have found me dull compared to the spectacular blue-and-black leopard print that was lacquered along his tail. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, the dragonfly was gone.
Only minutes passed before the object of my intentions appeared. The osprey, with slow, regal flaps of its enormous wings, passed above the trees coming from the eastern end of the broad. Its snow-white feet were held below it, one in front of the other, talons clutching a fish almost half as long as the bird itself. I can only imagine the fish hanging there, eyes wide and mouth gawping in surprise at its sudden reversal of fortune. One minute fixated on a fly sitting atop the watery world which is all the fish had ever known, the next transported into another dimension, flying through the air, wind whipping past its scales. The osprey landed on its usual perch, an extended arm of a dead tree, and began its lunch. The smart brown and white livery combined with a high brow and hooked beak gave it the air of a pretentious Victorian gentleman, the piercing, disapproving eyes shining through a band of brown plumage that resembled spectacles. All that was lacking was a top hat. Despite this imperious image, the bird ate with a remarkable lack of dignity, bending over to take large chunks of fish from between its feet and gulping them down with gusto.
Leaving it to its lunch I scanned the shoreline with my scope, passing over the dinosaur silhouettes of herons and the bobbing gadwall. There, perching on a branch half submerged in water was a long, pointed, broad, black beak, and a shimmering turquoise strip set between two wings of deep blue that could only be one thing. The halcyon bird, the kingfisher. Whilst watching, this little showman graced me with a full display of its spectacular plumage by repeatedly turning round on the branch. The breast and blushing cheeks were plastered in bright orange, at once contrasting and complementing the serene blues of its back and wings, with the whole ensemble set off by white highlights on chin and neck. With a peep and a flurry of wingbeats it alighted the branch and took off with speed, skimming above the water and heading into the distance, its vibrancy fading away like the last gasp of the sun at dusk, a fiery rim dipping below the horizon.
The broad wasn’t finished with me yet. Just as I slung the scope across my shoulder and took a last look across the water, a dark, blunt head popped out of the water. By the time I had raised my binoculars to my eyes, it had gone. Was it just the back of a diving grebe? A few moments later the head re-emerged and confirmed itself as belonging to an otter, the first one I had seen on the broad. This one was swimming lazily along, diving at intervals but seeming to have no sort of agenda. Despite a remarkable comeback in recent years, otters are still a spectacular sight and I feel privileged every time I see one. This one was just the cherry on top of a perfect half an hour at this corner of the Norfolk Broads.
So that was my Tuesday.