I was fishing on a small Suffolk gravel pit earlier this year, asleep in my bivvy. It was the early hours and the whole lake had a deathly quiet below the shroud of mist that clung to the glassy water.
I awoke with a start, thinking I'd heard a muffled noise, and I tried to convince myself it was the exhaust of a car. But it was such an eerie night it could have been anything.
Then I heard footsteps; heavy, lumbering footsteps that made the ground tremble.
Suddenly, as though from nowhere, this deafening, raucous noise came from behind my bivvy and an evil stench pervaded the night air. Surely this was the smell of death?
I cringed in the darkness and through the open door saw two badgers jump in the lake.
Than a voice said, "Morning, 'ad any bites?"
And Big Rik's head appeared in the doorway.