Things hadn’t been right for longer than he would admit. Several days running he had arrived at work and found it difficult to get out of his car. For some reason he kept playing Regina Spektor’s Fidelity over and over.

He had been lucky up to now, he knew that. A good job straight out of Uni. Some pressure but nothing that he couldn’t handle.

Then he discovered the realities of corporate life. At first small things, just irritants really. Contractual negotiations, petty office politics that could revolve around anything from the loss of a favorite mug to reserved car parking spaces.

After a while the serious stuff began. His manager had been promoted way above his ability. His way of dealing with this had turned him into a sociopath. Subtle bullying, undermining people at every opportunity. He managed to create a truly poisonous atmosphere. Over a single year this had turned into something really dark. He tried to stick it out.

The first time that it crept up on him was terrifying. He had gone to the old shed at the bottom of the garden to find some paint and had cut his hand. The gash was deep and, in an effort to stop the bleeding, both his hands had ended up covered in blood. He was tired anyway, but somehow this simple accident triggered such a strong feeling of depression that he found himself staring at the coil of old rope on a hook in the ceiling.

No plan had been formed, but it was enough to frighten him in a way that was difficult to deal with. An old friend had been seeing a therapist, and he got the number that night.

At first nothing changed. The woman was kind, and the sessions were not too traumatic.

He decided that he would always walk to and from the place where he received the counselling. It helped him to prepare for, and then process, the experience.

His route took him along the river, and he noticed a heron perched at the same spot each time. Stunningly beautiful and still, intent on only one thing. Then one day a lightning fast dive, some splashing and then that wingspan far above him. Shocking efficiency but just so beautiful.

Something began to return to him that night. Very slowly at first. The image from the shed still disturbed his sleep, but it gradually faded.

The date that he saw the heron dive was easy to remember. His fourth session. By the time of his sixth, the creature had become an important part of his week.

It was late October, and the salmon were going upriver. A small miracle. Twenty years ago, the river was so filthy. Another dive, but this time much slower to emerge. A huge fish, barely contained in its beak.

Another month and his notice handed in. Savings blown on an old camper. No particular plans, except to head for Calais. Flat rented out. Just one last stop before the motorway. The rain was coming down heavily, but there the heron was, still as ever, not a twitch. He watched for a few moments, getting soaked, before trudging back up to the van.