The heron watched us with that expression of mad intensity that herons do so well.
Our canoe was gliding with a pleasing grace between each stroke of the paddles. The heron’s long legs flexed – was he going to fly? “We mean no harm,” Eddie quoted softly. Another stroke, another glide.
The heron had made his decision and stood his ground, statuesque in grey, black and white, following us with a yellow eye.
We passed five yards from him, and he moved not a muscle; it was one of those moments of ineffable pleasure that comes to everyone who’s tuned in to nature.
Watch this Grey Heron fish. Video: @RSPBVideo
These moments seem to come more often in and on and around water. Sun plus water equals life – that’s an equation every bit as old as life – but in this country we tend to take the watery part for granted, reserving our wonder for days in the sun.
But it’s out in the wet places of the world that life takes on an added richness. Wetlands, such as those at RSPB nature reserves Minsmere (Suffolk) and Titchwell Marsh (Norfolk), are cathedrals that we should value as we do Yorkminster and St Paul’s. And an especially intimate connection with nature comes when you’re sitting on the water and moving under your own power, even when Eddie is taking a break from the actual paddling.
‘You get these moments of glory from time to time in any environment, but they come more often in wet places – moments of privilege that make millionaires of us all’
Eddie is my younger son, aged 23 and with Down’s syndrome. Taking the canoe out on the local river in the Broads is one of our routine pleasures and we’ve been doing it since he was old enough to hold a paddle. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we go gliding off into one of those states of meditative calm that water so often brings about. Water is, after all, the thinking person’s television.
Sometimes we hug the banks; in late summer, we’re hard up against tall spikes of Purple Loosestrife, little yellow suns of Common Fleabane and the pale pink of Hemp-agrimony – classic wet-country plants. The Banded Demoiselles use the banks as a ballroom – four wings, each tipped with lavish blots of blue-black ink.
We get good skies, as you would expect in Norfolk, coming right down to meet the seedheads of the reeds above our heads or forming a backdrop to the elegant willows. Eddie pointed out the Swallows hawking for insects over the river and daringly coming down to sip from the surface at neck-breaking speed, the ultimate quick drink.
We turned round and headed back. Eddie is always on his mettle when we meet a headwind – he’s not to be beaten. And then, well, you get these moments of glory from time to time in any environment, but they come more often in wet places – moments of privilege that make millionaires of us all.
“Kingfisher!” Eddie exclaimed. And we both saw that flash of blue fire, fizzing away from the boat, leaving a burning line on our retinas after it had gone.
We got back to the boatyard feeling that we’d had a great treat, and also that we deserved another. Well, why not? We put the canoe back and walked towards the pub and a quick drink. “Why do we do this?” I asked. “Is it the lure of the river or the cheesy chips?”
“Both,” said Eddie.
Which is the right answer.
