After daylight gives way to nighttime on the marsh, a different cast of characters emerges from the River Stour. My camera traps record what my torchlight might never catch: animals that thrive and hunt in darkness.

Just two and a half minutes of black, greys and bright eyes captures three of the marsh’s most secretive residents slipping through the darkness in their own unhurried but practiced ways.

First comes the fox. It moves with that unmistakable mix of caution, swagger, and days and nights of padding along these same muddy paths. Their eyes gleam briefly in the infrared light before they melt back into the undergrowth. They know every dip in the bank, every tunnel through the reeds.

Then the otters. With sleek, fluid movements, they slip through the frame with barely a sound. One moment, the bank is empty; the next, an otter is there, glancing up with a bright, curious eye before sliding back into the water. Their visits are fleeting, but full of life.

And finally, the beaver appears, a stocky silhouette shuffling purposefully across the river margin. It pauses—just long enough to give the camera a slow, whiskered profile—before nudging forward on some private mission. Watching these animals investigate a landscape is still something of a marvel and a rarity. Even in darkness, you can see the confidence in its movements.

What the footage reveals, above all, is that the marsh never sleeps. When we retreat indoors, and the fields fall still, the river is a busy highway for creatures that know how to move invisibly through the night. Each one leaves the faintest trace behind: a ripple, and muddy pawprint.

Thankfully, my camera sees the action and shows us.