We have always loved those solitary fishers, herons. When we lived in West Didsbury we would encounter them at intervals along the banks of the Mersey - thin ones and healthy ones, accomplished spearers of coarse fish and those whose ineptitude made us fear for their survival. Here on our allotment, they like to visit the pond, to the discomfort of B. He has placed a large, very life-like plastic imitation heron on one bank to discourage them. The goldfish are still there, circling hopefully just under the surface whenever they perceive a human silhouette.
But the only time we had previously seen the heron's smaller relative, the egret, was on the marshes at Tollesbury, a fitting place in its wildness with the oystercatchers calling over the mudflats.
On Friday I saw an egret in Writtle, three miles from Chelmsford, fishing in the overflowing stream that runs by the willows along the side of the college. It was there lifting up its feet in its delicate whiteness as I drove past and there on the way back.
Little visitor, if only you could come and establish yourself by our pond. Meanwhile, good fishing.
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