‘Okay, that’s not a problem. But I can mention they’re present in Hawksley River?’
‘Yes, of course. Use it as a way to educate people. If they have dogs, let them know they need to keep them on a lead if they’re near a stretch of river where otters are known to be. There are lots of signs people can look out for that tell them if otters are present. Five-toed footprints on muddy river banks, flattened, smooth patches of grass or soil going into the river where the otters have slid in, dead fish and fish scales left at the side of the water, and spraint.’
‘Spraint?’
‘Poo. They mark their territories using spraint, and well-used areas usually get a good coating. There’s a rock along the river I can show you – another day, obviously,’ he says, nodding at my ankle, ‘where the spraint has built up from continued use. Otters are solitary animals, so they don’t share their territories with other otters.’
‘Really? I always imagine them living in big groups, holding hands in the water and looking cute.’
‘That’s sea otters. These are Eurasian river otters. A male otter will have a territory of about eleven miles, and there will be females living within that, but no other males.’
‘Oh, I see. So, who’s commissioned you to take this footage?’
‘A wildlife magazine, and the BBC are interested in any film footage I might get for a wildlife documentary.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive.’
He shrugs and then frowns at me. ‘Are you alright? You’ve gone a funny colour?’
‘I feel a bit sick, but I’ll be alright.’ I shift on the chair and suck in a breath as pain shoots up my leg. ‘Have you contributed footage to any documentaries before?’
‘Yes, several in fact. I’ve filmed bats for a kid’s nature programme, contributed to Springwatch and Autumnwatch, lots of things. I’m never short of work.’
‘Great. What did you do when you left here for a while? Did you take a holiday or do more work?’
‘I just went home to see my family. Usually I’m halfway around the world so it’s great being closer to home and feeling like I can pop back whenever I need to.’
‘Where is home? Dublin?’
‘Close. I’m a country boy. Wicklow. Can I make you some tea or get you something to drink?’
‘No, thank you. Oh, I meant to tell you that the lady up at the house said she’s making scones if you want some later.’
Aiden laughs. ‘Aw she’s good to me. Her cooking’s amazing. I love her scones.’
‘Do you eat all your meals up there?’
‘Not all, but she invites me up for Sunday lunch and the odd meal in the week. I think she thinks I’m mad for living down here on my own. She thinks I’m going to starve to death or something. I tell her I’m used to living like this. This is my life.’
I glance back at the tent with a raised eyebrow. ‘You live like this constantly?’
He nods. ‘I’m always working.’
‘Can’t you stay in hotels?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ He laughs. ‘You can’t beat sleeping under canvas.’
‘You can. I’m sorry, but sleeping on a camp bed? That’s no fun, surely?’
He laughs again. ‘Like I said before, I can sleep pretty much anywhere.’
My eyes get very big as I try to absorb this information. ‘But what about in the winter?’
‘I just use a thicker sleeping bag. Although to be honest I usually work it so I go somewhere warmer. If the weather gets really bad and I don’t need to be out filming, I do stay in hotels. Ivy and Bill have let me stay in their spare room a couple of times when it’s been stormy. It’s nice to sleep in a proper bed once in a while. And I shower up there so it’s great to be able to wash.’
I shake my head slowly. ‘I just don’t get it. Why would you want to live like this?’
‘I love it. I love my job. I don’t have to camp, but I feel more connected to nature when I do and that helps me in my work.’
‘Oh.’ I tip my head on one side, considering. ‘That’s kind of beautiful.’
He smiles and lifts the towel to look at my ankle. I flinch slightly and put my hand out to stop him, but he’s careful not to touch my foot. ‘I’ve got to tell you, that’s not looking good. It’s more swollen than before. I really think we should get you to hospital.’
‘But …’
‘No buts. I insist. I can’t be responsible for you hurting yourself and then not take you to hospital. I won’t have it.’ He stands up and starts to remove his camouflage jacket and trousers. I watch, slightly alarmed that he’s stripping off in front of me, but luckily he’s wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt underneath. Somehow, they make him look a lot more normal. He ducks into his tent and grabs a hooded sweatshirt. ‘Are you cold? Do you want to wear this?’
‘No, I’m okay,’ I say, though I do feel a little chilly.
‘You’ve got goose bumps on your arms. Here, put it on.’ He holds it out for me to slip my arms inside and once it’s on, I feel glad of the soft material. ‘Right, let’s do this,’ he says, lifting the towel from my leg and then my leg gently off the folding stool. I hold my breath, not wanting to move at all, but Aiden is all business as he ties up his hair and then turns and bends down, one knee on the floor. ‘I’ll have to give you a piggyback.’
‘Are you sure?’ I say, with some uncertainty. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll stop if I can’t manage it and you’ll have to stay in my tent until you’re better.’ He laughs wickedly.
‘Don’t say that!’ I have a very real fear that it actually will come to that. I can’t believe this tall spindly man will be able to carry me up that hill.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you sleep on the floor. You can have my camp bed and I’ll sleep up at the farm.’
‘Wonderful.’
He smiles. ‘Come on, climb aboard.’
Heaving myself out of the chair, I stand on my good leg and wrap my arms around his neck. Aiden hooks his arms around the back of my legs and stands up. Pain shoots through my ankle as it brushes his side and I shout out and bury my face in his neck.
‘Sorry,’ he says, standing very still. ‘Shall I put you down?’
I shake my head against him. ‘No, go on.’
He starts to walk and I keep my eyes closed, teeth gritted as my ankle dangles and bobs with each swaying step. It’s agony, but there’s no way I’m staying in his tent tonight. I start to feel nauseous from the pain and I keep my mouth tight shut, imagining the horror of vomiting down this man’s collar.
‘I hope I don’t smell,’ he’s saying. ‘I did have a shower this morning so I should be alright, but I don’t tend to wear loads of deodorant because I don’t want the animals to scent me.’
‘Do you want to go and put some on?’ I mutter, my stomach turning over queasily. ‘You might get a bit sweaty walking up this hill.’
‘Nah, it’s okay. It’s up at the farm.’