I was standing on the riverbank this morning, trying to take it all in — as I know many other local people are, too. The entire North Marsh — five fields, eighty-three acres of wet floodplain, ditches, reeds and rushes — is up for sale — the living heart of Wilden Marsh, the pulse of the Lower Stour Valley. I fear the marsh being lost to development.

It’s difficult to stay unmoved when others talk of figures, policies, and profits to be made from selling nature — especially after sixteen years spent walking, watching and working this place. I understand that money speaks loudest, and that my own voice is but a whisper, drowned out by the need to turn a profit. Yet to say nothing would be to invite a loss I would rather not face.

I don’t want to demonise the owner of North Marsh for wanting to sell up; it’s a legitimate choice, one we have to accept. The Worcestershire Wildlife Trust has managed it for so long now on behalf of Associated British Foods; it would be a terrible shame if all their efforts are wasted.

Last night I had a dream. Allied British Foods appeared in it as a gentle benefactor. Having made a fortune transforming the old sugar factory into a vast industrial and residential estate, they decided to gift the remaining floodplain — the wet heart of the place — to the Worcestershire Wildlife Trust. Fantastic! However, such things, I’m certain, happen only in dreams.

It was the fourth prophetic dream I’ve had in my life. The first three nudged me in directions I might never have travelled otherwise. In this one, the Trust announced that the gift had been offered by ABF and accepted by the Trust — signed, sealed and delivered. The relief was overwhelming.

Filled with excitement, I hurried down to the marsh, my head full of plans. But when I unlocked the Lagoon Field gate, a sharp stench of sewage stopped me in my tracks. I ran towards North Riverside Pasture. The two great cast-iron pipes dividing the Swamp from the pasture — running from the pumping station at Hoo Brook, through North Riverside Pasture, across the island to the sewage works on the west bank — had fractured. The Swamp and North Riverside Pasture were overflowing, sewage spilling into North Pond, through the scrapes, into the river.

In my dream, it was a horrific scene — the marsh poisoned by the very systems built to serve the town. I’ve dreaded this happening for years.

The clean-up bill was ruinous, and the land was declared polluted. Even in triumph, the dream soured; even in sleep, the marsh tries to warn me. Perhaps the message is simple enough: nothing here is secure — not the land, not our plans, not even our best intentions.

Getting back to reality now — we’ve had sewage pipe ruptures on the South Marsh. They make a terrible mess — enough to justify rushing a fleet of road tankers to suck the poisonous mess from the central drainage ditch and haul it back to the works. But the sewage that flowed into the river for hours was lost. All that, and the days of cleaning and reparation, leave their mark on the marsh and on the mind.

This morning I was on the marsh checking the cattle, as the mist lifted from the pools, I stood again at the water’s edge. A heron rose from the reed fringe, slow-winged and deliberate, and the sound of jackdaws carried from Dark Wood. The river moved steadily on, indifferent to our mistakes, patient as ever. Whatever happens, Wilden Marsh endures — wounded at times, yes, but still breathing, still wild for the time being.