Miles of empty white beach stretch ahead and there is not another soul in sight. Piles of creamy cumulus drift across a summer blue sky while along the horizon a band of deeper but entirely unthreatening clouds only strengthens and enriches the colours of the sea.
There is an unexpected warmth in the sun and not even a hint of approaching autumn in the breeze crossing this Outer Hebrides island. The tide is almost but not quite at its height. Rank after rank of small waves break on the beach, the occasional one reaching just a short distance further up the still dry sand.
The urge to paddle is irresistible and I wade out a short distance watching the more distant sea yet still keeping a wary eye out for bigger wavelets that might lead to a pair of water-filled wellies.
As the receding waves race back they excavate the sand from around my feet and the sight and sensation of their retreat makes it seem as if it is I rather than them in motion. A slight movement away to my right catches my attention and though barely seen I’m sure it’s the flick of a diving otter’s tail.
Within seconds a small otter does surface, in a patch of calm water. Then then straightaway it dives again into the face of the next oncoming wave, its sinuous body visible for just a second within the glassy green.
It reappears once more, this time resting easily on the surface of the water allowing itself to ride up and over the next swell in much the same way as does a sea duck.
When I see the otter next it is directly in front of me and a mere 30ft away. I stand motionless watching and it holds my gaze until, overtaken by a breaking wave, it disappears beneath a flurry of foam.
Once the initial surprise is over my presence doesn’t seem to worry the otter at all and it gets right back to the business of hunting; diving and surfacing, diving and surfacing, gradually moving past and away down the beach until out of sight.
