I quickly lifted my camera onto my shoulder, filming the bird as it flew over the loch. It hovered for a moment, seeming to look over at me, and my heart swelled. I still had to pinch myself every day to make sure I really was doing the job I’d dreamt of doing since I was a teenager. The dream had started when I’d had to leave home at fourteen and work at the hotel my aunt ran in London. There were so many horrible things about that time: how desperately I missed my parents, our only contact in the form of stilted weekly letters. My aunt had worked me so hard, pleased to have an extra pair of hands at no extra cost. ‘You need to earn your accommodation and food, Gwyneth,’ she’d say. ‘You’re lucky I took you on after what you did.’ Not to mention the way some of the male guests would pat my bottom or make lewd comments. The one bright light was the fact the hotel was close to the British Film Institute’s headquarters so it was often frequented by documentary-makers who would stay during events. I’d escape the sadness of my life by listening in to their conversations as I served them tea over breakfast, or beer and wine late into the night. Civil rights marches in Memphis or starving children in Nigeria. There would always be a harrowing story to listen to. But it was the stories from the wildlife documentary-makers that fascinated me the most. I’d always loved watching the BBC’s Survival documentaries as a kid, awestruck by the stampedes of the great African elephants and soaring flights of proud birds of prey. And I had been in the company of the very people who filmed shots like that! It thrilled me.

And now I was feeling that same thrill as I watched this rarely sighted bird, the colour of snow, swooping down beneath a pale pink sky before landing on the iced-over loch. I smiled as I imagined what my mentor Reg Carlisle, the famous wildlife documentary-maker, would say.

‘Keep quiet. Keep steady,’ he’d whisper. Then a wink. ‘Nice spot, Gwyneth.’

I felt the leather notepad in my pocket that he’d given me as a gift just before he died then I took a step forward, then another before I reached the loch, where I carefully tested the ice beneath my snow boots. It was set, surely strong enough to sustain my weight. I was tall but thin, weighing less than usual after all those months of living on boil-in-the-bag camp food.

I took a deep breath and stepped onto the loch.

The bird froze, peering up at me, and I froze with it, pleased the camera was rolling.