At the Water's Edge

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John Lister-Kaye. At the Water's Edge

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Magnus Magnusson

in gratitude

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The loch was frozen and that was where our paths parted. He carried on across the ice; I wasn’t prepared to risk it. So I turned aside and went to the fishing hut. It has an old chair and a bunk and a stove, nothing special, just enough for backwoods comfort, somewhere I often come to think and write. I lit the stove and sank into the armchair beside it and kicked off my boots. I sat looking out at the white world outside and the frozen loch, waiting for the warmth to percolate through to my toes. Slowly I realised I wasn’t alone.

A woodmouse, Apodemus, was eyeing me up from the woodpile stacked on the far side of the stove. ‘Hullo,’ I said quietly. I have always loved woodmice. They have style, real élan, and are as golden as hamsters, with huge, shining eyes and ears and a long, flowing tail that wafts behind them like a thread in the wind, never touching the ground. (They used to be called long-tailed fieldmice). They outclass the house mouse in every way. This particular mouse was not in conversational mood, and he disappeared back into the woodpile. But he wasn’t alone. As I sat quietly for the next hour I heard constant rustlings inside the old sofa beside my chair, more in the roof. There were many more than three bad mice. It was a winter invasion and they were very pleased with the accommodation.

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