I was drawn by the distinct scent of fresh water. It’s such a fine, uplifting odour. ‘Long enough in the desert a man, like other animals, can learn to smell water,’ wrote the late Edward Abbey, American author and environmental activist, in Desert Solitaire. Far from a desert, across the railway tracks behind an industrial park, I found a misty, moody, monochrome fishing lake lined with rushes. 

A heron circled overhead, stately and assured. Black-and-white tufted ducks careened in, to land with a waterski skid. Coots drifted over the smooth surface. They always draw a wry reminiscence from me because a thousand lifetimes ago I studied the ‘agonistic commu- nication’ of coots for my university dissertation, whatever that means. But my heart had already clocked off from academia by then and I was getting ready to hit the road. I had requested to do my fieldwork in Africa, sniffing the opportunity to wangle an adventure out of a degree. But the professor was wise to my scheming and I was unceremoniously packed off to sit by a chilly Edinburgh duckpond for weeks, much like the one I’d discovered today. I smiled at my youthful disappointment 

and turned away from the coots.