After months of drought, the much prayed for rain has arrived. Mizzle falls steadily as I weave along the path, past the hand-etched memento mori, towards the rear of the churchyard. A lichen-encrusted menhir watches over me from a corner, surrounded by Victorian headstones, a reminder of the Christian erosion of the ancient beliefs that once enfolded this landscape. I huddle up to the ancient yew, shielding myself from the rain, and wait, watching the skylark’s pirouette above one of the neighbouring barley fields.
Eventually, my long wait is rewarded. Out of the damp vegetation pops a water shrew, in velveteen robe with a silvery-white shirt beneath. It scurries along the path, weaving in and out of the foliage before disappearing into a thick clump of bramble, only to reappear again moments later.
Water shrews are reported to be shy, elusive animals, but this one is not. It is bold, unbothered by my presence, stopping centimetres from me to forage for invertebrates, its long nose poking and probing. Shrews typically have tiny eyes with poor sight, their elongated noses and strong olfactory senses helping instead to locate their prey.
I first encountered water shrews here last year, a small colony, likely youngsters, dispersing from the undergrowth. We tend to associate them with bodies of water, but they can also turn up in grassland, hedgerows, scrubland and even gardens, sometimes a good distance from the nearest water source. I have been monitoring this site ever since, sitting among the dead, waiting for signs of life.
The water shrew wriggles along the pathway, its charming appearance belying its darker side. Sharp, red-tipped teeth and venomous saliva enable them to tackle and paralyse prey 60 times their body weight, diving into water to catch fish, frogs and freshwater shrimps, dragging them to the surface to eat.
For now, this one must make do with the spiders and crickets that live among the damp grass – it’s a long journey for such a small creature to the nearby reservoir. It disappears beneath the bracken and doesn’t reappear again this time. The hoot of a male tawny owl somewhere in the distance tells me this is a wise choice.
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