
Otters are temperamentally nocturnal, but they are also opportunists, and on waterways where nobody bothers them they will happily fish in daylight. The trick is to be there before anyone else. The best window runs from about an hour before sunrise to two hours after, and it is at its best between October and March, when long nights leave a hungry otter still working the pools after first light.
Weather that sends most people back to the car works in your favour. A frosty morning with mist lying on the water softens your outline; steady light rain keeps the towpath empty and lifts the river just enough to colour it, which suits a hunting otter. Dusk can be productive too, but you have less time and less light, and the last half hour is usually the only half hour worth having.
Pick a stretch you can walk in twenty minutes and then do it again and again. Otters keep routines, and familiarity with one bend beats a tour of five rivers.
Otters need food, cover and somewhere dry to rest, roughly in that order. So read the river for those three things rather than scanning the surface hopefully. On a map or from the bank, mark the features that concentrate fish and give shelter:
A dead stretch stays dead. If you find no small fish, no bullheads under the stones, no frogs along the margin, move on rather than wait it out.
Spraint is the most reliable sign. It is a dark, tarry dropping, usually full of fish bones and scales, and fresh it smells oddly pleasant — jasmine tea, hay, or a fishmonger's slab. Otters deposit it conspicuously, on flat-topped stones, grass tussocks, gravel spits, bridge ledges and the concrete aprons of culverts, often where a path meets the water. Fresh spraint is dark and slightly slimy; older spraint dries to a pale grey and crumbles. If you find one, look for more within thirty metres, up and downstream.
Then look for the other two:
A dense clump of nettles or sedge above the waterline may be a couch, a daytime resting place. Note it and keep your distance.
Walk at perhaps a third of your normal pace, and stop for a full minute at every bend. An otter surfaces for two or three seconds at a time, so a single glance down the reach proves nothing; you need to be watching when it comes up. Keep your silhouette below the skyline, walk with the light behind or to the side of you, and avoid bright colours.
What you will usually notice first is not the animal but the water: a V-shaped wake, a line of bubbles, a smooth domed head like a wet seal, then a roll and a slap of the tail. Listen as well, for a soft whistle between cubs and mother, and for the hollow thump of a fish being killed on a stone.
Take 8x42 binoculars, a sit mat so you can wait comfortably, and a flask. Keep any dog on a lead and well back from the bank — a swimming dog will empty a mile of river.
Otters are protected by law, and disturbing one at a holt is an offence, so never push into a bank of roots or a pile of boulders to see what is inside. Stay on rights of way and permissive paths, ask before crossing private land, and give gravel spawning beds a wide berth in late autumn and winter.
Practise good biosecurity: check, clean and dry boots, waders and nets between rivers to avoid moving crayfish plague and invasive plants. Take all line and litter home, including the bits that are not yours. And do send your sightings to your county records centre — even a single spraint on a bridge ledge tells someone something useful. Then go back next week, at the same hour, and do the same walk again.
Hi, my name is Anthony kuber. I am artist and fashion designer.
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