I was scanning North Pond with my night scope when I noticed something peculiar among the trees on the far bank.

Small coloured flares flickered between the trunks. Through the scope they appeared as bright white flashes dancing amongst the branches. With the naked eye I could just make out faint blue and orange glimmers.

For a while I stood and watched.

The sight reminded me of a gathering of fireflies, though I had never seen fireflies on the marsh. It was unlike anything I had encountered before.

I am not one for believing in fairies, gnomes or other supernatural creatures lurking amongst the reeds. There is usually a sensible explanation for such things. The trick is finding it.

Years ago, while walking through Hoo Wood after dark, I watched a glowing orange orb drift slowly down from the sky. For several minutes I was convinced I was witnessing something extraordinary. The mystery lasted until I later found the remains of a Chinese paper lantern on the marsh.

Perhaps this was something similar.

I considered my options.

I could continue around the pond, crashing through the bog and undergrowth on the far side. I could wade straight across the water. Or I could make a long detour around the lagoon and approach from the opposite direction.

The night was already as dark as ol’ Nick’s coal cellar, so I chose the longer route.

Carefully picking my way around the swamp, I eventually reached the stock fence overlooking the far side of the pond. The coloured lights had vanished.

In their place came another clue.

Wood smoke.

And cooking.

I eased forward and scanned the trees once more.

What I saw brought me to an abrupt halt.

A hide I had dismantled several weeks earlier had been rebuilt. This time it was covered in plastic sheeting. Beside it sat a figure in a broad-brimmed hat. He was crouched over a small stove, his great beard glowing faintly in the firelight.

At his feet lay an enormous kit bag.

The mystery of the dancing lights was solved.

I had stumbled upon a tramp.

I called out.

“Hello there. Mind if I come over?”

The figure nearly jumped out of his skin.

“What the…?” came the reply. “Who are ya? Trying to give an old man a heart attack?”

There followed a short exchange, after which he reluctantly allowed me into his camp.

His shelter was simple but remarkably neat. Everything had its place. Everything looked ready to be packed away at a moment’s notice.

The stove fascinated me. It was made from a pair of tins, one fitting neatly inside the other. Flames licked from the air holes, producing the strange lights I had seen from across the pond.

The man turned out to be a traveller of sorts.

He moved along riverbanks and canal towpaths, camping where opportunity presented itself. Fish came from hook and line. Rabbits from snares. Other food, I suspected, came from methods he preferred not to discuss in detail.

He carried all his possessions in a huge military kit bag strapped to a sturdy two-wheeled trolley.

As we talked, I realised I was meeting someone from a disappearing world.

He made his own charcoal. Built his own stoves. Travelled without timetable or destination. He seemed entirely capable of surviving outdoors for as long as he wished.

Eventually I sensed I had overstayed my welcome.

I thanked him for his time, reminded him that he was camping on a private nature reserve, and suggested it might be wise not to make a habit of it.

He nodded and returned his attention to the stew simmering in his billy can.

I left him sitting beside his little stove and made my way home through the darkness.

The following morning I returned to the pond.

The camp had vanished.

The hide was gone.

The stove was gone.

The traveller was gone.

There was not a footprint to be found.

Had I not spoken to him myself, I might have doubted the encounter had happened at all.

Anyone seeing him walking along a canal towpath would have assumed he was simply a fisherman pulling his trolley.

They would have been mistaken.

He was a tramp disguised as a fisherman.

And a very good one at that.