The Otter was born much later, when the world was a harder and less forgiving place. He was a curious mixture of the playful light on the softly undulating moorland hills, the transient charm of the briefly-flowering heather, and a desperate hunger for fat fish. He was at his most solitary in the winter: a season for survival, with no time for pursuits of a more convivial nature. In the spring he was entirely given over to industry, repairing the damage of the harsh winter while hunting and eating prodigiously. By the summertime he was sleek and comfortable. He spent his nights poaching or stealing any opportunistic delicacies that came his way, but at the height of the noonday sun he would frolic and laze on the banks of the peaceful loch.