Speculation on the habits of otters on an eastern river, and their possible decline, drew a reassuring letter from Brendan Kelly of Killiney. He has been lucky, he says in recent times. Three years ago, while sea trouting at night on the Dargle at Tinnehinch, he heard an otter whistling up stream of him, and quite close by. Seconds later there was an answering whistle from downstream. "I couldn't help but feel I was the subject of discussion."
Last year, while he was having his lunch on the shores of Lough Owel (that's the one which is fed by under ground springs, and many stories of the clarity of its water, from Lloyd Praegeron), he watched a large otter swim by in leisurely fashion. And Lough Owel isn't exactly remote and quiet. On another lake, he writes, he shadowed an otter from his boat until it swam into the reeds. "Even though it was then submerged, I could follow its progress by the movement of the reed stems as it swam along about one yard in and parallel to the open water.
"At the same place, on another occasion when he had pulled his boat into the reeds to eat his sardine and onion sandwiches, he became aware that he was being watched. He looked through the reeds and saw the broad, whiskered face of an otter, just a boatlength away. They watched each other. The otter didn't seem to be in any way alarmed.
"And when it slipped away, it was followed by a slightly smaller otter, which, in turn, paused to have a good look." This is the lake over which the kindly Gibson Brabazons live.
In answer to a query, thrown out casually in this corner a year or so ago, as to whether snipe still drum over it on summer evenings. He answered `yes' they do. All our midlands lakes have their own attractions. Ennel: picnic on an island and you find that the little white shore is made up of tiny snail shells. That was a few years ago, of course, some lugubrious friend said it wasn't there any more. Maybe he had the wrong island. Then there's Derravaragh, and there's more to it than legend. We don't know how lucky we are.