Keith Broomfield

A passion for nature

Beaver

How beavers can boost biodiversity in Strathspey

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On February 20, 2026

In Wildlife

Sometimes it is better to let the mind wander and imagine the creatures that might be around you rather than seeing them in the flesh – and that is exactly what I did from my vantage point overlooking the Insh Marshes near Kingussie on Strathspey.

It was dusk and the gloaming light was fading fast, yet the watery channels, pools and winter-withered rushes of the flood plain of the River Spey possessed an inner resonance that glowed and sparkled. Nothing moved on this RSPB reserve, no birds on the pools, nor roe deer skirting the marsh fringes.  So, instead, my mind drifted in dreamy melancholy and conjured images of white-cloaked whooper swans feeding in the shallows and a hen harrier quartering the marshes in a slow and measured flight.

I let my mind wander some more and pictured a beaver plying one of the channels, leaving a shimmering V-wake in the water.  I imagined cranes standing like proud sentinels on one of the many islands and little egrets wading by the water’s edge in their perennial search for fish.

The little egrets and cranes were fantasies of my mind as they are not currently present on the Insh Marshes, although there is every possibility they might occur in the future as both species increase their range.  

As for beavers, well they do occur on the Insh Marshes with a family group introduced a couple of years ago as part of a planned programme of co-ordinated releases in the Cairngorms National Park to reestablish them in the area. Beavers belong here and are as much part of the environment as the waterfowl, salmon and trout, yet have been absent for over 400 years after being hunted to extinction. Now they are back and on the cusp of bringing new vitality to the environment.

Of course, beavers are controversial and some people are wary and belligerent about their return. I get that, and every opinion should be valued and considered rather than ignored, but I firmly believe that the overall impact of beavers on the River Spey floodplain will be hugely beneficial. I am not saying that as some starry-eyed environmentalist who does not give a whit about the views of others, but rather as someone with considerable experience of beavers on my own local river further south.

On my river, trees felled into the water by beavers provide shelter for fish to thrive much in the same way as an ocean reef, and the resultant bankside clearings create sun-dappled places for wildflowers to prosper. Most of the trees are coppiced rather than killed and quickly sprout new shoots of recovery. The channels and pools created by beavers abound with new life, including aquatic plants, invertebrates and amphibians. Recently, I filmed a snipe by the edge of a beaver channel. Beaver dams can store precious water for wildlife in times of drought and prevent downstream flooding after rainy deluges.

In short, beavers deliver enhanced biodiversity and make our environment more resilient, benefiting both nature and humanity. It is as simple as that.

Gannet

The hectic life of the gannet

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On September 12, 2025

In Wildlife

As I approached the clifftop at Troup Head in north Aberdeenshire, the intoxicating aroma of briny sea air suddenly enveloped my senses and ahead of me the white-cloaked forms of gannets swirled in the air on outstretched wings.

With excited anticipation, I increased my pace and was soon standing on this spectacular clifftop near Gardenstown looking down upon throngs of gannets, their buff-yellow heads and striking, snow-pure plumage glowing bright in the morning sunshine. There was a stiff breeze and many gannets rode the air currents, hanging motionless for several seconds before wheeling away down towards the sea.

This was a bustling hive of activity and a cacophony of cackling noise – a seabird city that inspires and enthrals.  The large, white-fluffed bodies of rapidly growing chicks nestled besides their parents, while adult birds squabbled amongst themselves. There were many adult pairs without chicks, and they bobbed and swivelled their heads to strengthen their pair bonds in the hope of successful breeding some stage in the future.  This is a feature of gannets, with young adults congregating at nesting sites yet still not ready breed. However, they gain vital experience by attending these breeding colonies where they learn the ropes of courtship and establishing themselves into pairs.

Troup Head is the only mainland colony of gannets in Scotland and the cliffs have an interesting history with the birds only first breeding there in the mid-1980s. Over the following years, numbers increased rapidly, and at the last official count in 2023, 4,379 pairs were recorded. Gannet numbers are now increasing again after being temporarily hit hard by Avian Flu.

Many other seabirds breed at Troup Head, including guillemots and razorbills. It was especially gratifying to see good numbers of young, almost fully fledged, kittiwakes on many of the cliff ledges. These elegant, oceanic gulls have endured much in recent times, both from the Avian Flu and a shortage of their main food, sandeels, most probably caused by our warming seas.

After a while enjoying the gannets, I headed eastwards along a path, passing coastal features with such enchanting names as Nether Stair and Hare’s Nose and then down into Downie Bay where wildflowers swayed in the sea breeze, including perennial sow thistle and autumn hawkbit. Several yellowhammers swept up in the air before me, the males displaying wonderful lemon-hued heads, whilst the plumage of the female and young birds was more muted, yet still with an underlying beauty.

I also heard the jangling call of a corn bunting, which resembles the sound of a bunch of keys being vigorously shaken.  They are scarce birds nationally, with numbers having plummeted over the last half century or so due to the intensification of agriculture. The bird called once more and I glimpsed it on a distant fence post by a field of oats. As I was about to bring it under the scrutiny of my binoculars, it whirled away on brown-blurred wings and disappeared into the depths of the cereal crop where its nest was no doubt hidden.

 

 

Red kite

The return of the red kite

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On July 24, 2025

In Wildlife

The piercing grey eyes of this young red kite drew me irresistibly into their wild depths, reflecting the rolling fields and woodlands that lie in the shadow of the Braes of Doune.

This was a bird of unparalleled beauty, elegant lines and russet feathers, and remarkably placid too, which is the nature of young red kites when getting ringed. A short while earlier, an expert tree climber had lowered this kite and her sister in a protective bag from its nest to the ground, where they were both carefully leg-ringed and then returned to their nest near the kite viewing centre at Argaty  in central Scotland.

Ringing young kites plays a vital part in their conservation, enabling their movements to be studied once they have fledged so that we can learn more about their biology, as well as helping detect any cases of illegal persecution such as poisoning.   

The ringing team was led by Duncan Orr-Ewing, Head of Species & Land Management at RSPB Scotland, who has been involved in over-seeing  the reintroduction of red kites to Scotland since the early 1990s.  In what must rank as one of the greatest conservation success stories of modern times, a bird on the brink of extinction in the UK has bounced back big style due to a series of innovative reintroduction schemes using young birds from continental Europe.

These reintroductions began in 1989 at the Black Isle near Inverness and the Chilterns in England, followed in subsequent years by further releases at several other locations, including central Scotland, Dumfries & Galloway and Aberdeenshire.

At one time, red kites were our commonest bird of prey and their typical gliding flight gave rise to the old name for the bird of glead or gled – derivations of which can still be seen in Scottish place names today such as Gladhouse and Gledhill. However, they were relentlessly persecuted, and in Glen Garry estate alone, 275 red kites were slaughtered as ‘vermin’ between 1837 and 1840. By the end of the 19th century, the gled had been almost completely exterminated from Scotland.

In the early 1900s, there were just five pairs of British kites hanging on for grim survival in the central valleys of Wales – today, thanks to the reintroductions, there are about 6,000 breeding pairs in Britain, representing around 17 per cent of the world population.

Duncan says: “The methods we have developed are now being used as a template model by other European countries instigating their own reintroduction schemes, and this is something we should be proud about it.”

Some of the first young kites reintroduced into the UK came from Spain, and now in an ironic twist, such has been the extent of the British recovery, young birds from England are being used to bolster the Spanish population following a recent decline in numbers in the Iberian peninsula.

The kite, it would seem, is back for good in the British Isles and in the process has become a standard bearer of what can be achieved in nature revival if there is the will and determination to do so.

Flowers of the sea breeze

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On June 2, 2025

In Wildlife

Colin Gibson, who wrote the much-loved weekly nature diary for The Courier between 1954 and 1998, adored the Arbroath cliffs, which were often featured  in his columns.

He wrote: “Carlingheaugh Bay and Castlesea Bay – what wonderful places for wildflowers are the sea meadows of these sheltered havens near Auchmithie!”. He was similarly intrigued by the caves, headlands and other striking rock formations: “Brandy Cave, Rum Ness, the Forbidden Cave, Dickmont’s Den, Cove Ha’en – the very names ‘smell of smugglers!”

The coastal wildflowers are especially enchanting, and on a recent visit it was hard to break into a regular stride because I kept stopping to marvel at their unbridled beauty. Thrift – or sea-pink as often known – abounded in hazy drifts along the clifftops, swaying hypnotically in the perennial sea breeze.

Whilst most commonly deep pink in colour, the cushion-like blooms can show great variation, ranging from lilac to creamy white and every tint in-between. In local Scots, it is sometimes known as ‘heugh daisy’, from ‘heugh’, meaning a cliff or ravine.

Sea campion was similarly abundant, growing in thick carpets on the clifftops, their sprawling spread ideally suited to cope with the constant wind. Sea campion is also known as ‘dead man’s bells’, ‘witches thimbles’ and ‘Devil’s hatties’. According to folklore, this plant should not be picked as it is said to bring death. Why such a beautiful flower should be so associated with doom and evil is a mystery. Perhaps it reflects upon our dangerous rocky coastlines and the numerous shipwrecks from the past.

Also shining out were the yellow flowers of bird’s-foot trefoil and the pink-frilled petals of red campion. Bird’s-foot trefoil is much sought after by pollinators such as bees and is an important food plant for several caterpillar species, including that of the common blue butterfly. A member of the pea family, bird’s-foot trefoil is a king amongst plants when it comes to overall ecological importance. An old name for the plant is ‘granny’s toenails’ which denotes a rather unsavoury interpretation of the shape and form of the long, claw-like seed pods.

I ventured down to the water’s edge at Carlingheugh Bay and guddled around in the rockpools for a while, before returning to the upper shore where the song of a sedge warbler from a bramble thicket lured me in. Soon, I spotted the warbler, scuttling like a mouse in the undergrowth before popping up every so often to rip forth his grating song, the deep orange gape continually flashing like a beacon as he swivelled his head.

I gazed out across the bay once more. Somewhere nearby on the coast lay Driftwood Cave, which Colin Gibson noted as living up to its name, with piles of driftwood accumulating at its inner end. On one occasion, a man told him he had found ‘a cartload of old potatoes’ in the cave.  Gibson observed: “No doubt they had been tipped over the cliff edge, and stowed away here (in smuggler fashion) by the omnivorous sea.”

 

 

Enchanted by the frog chorus

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On April 16, 2025

In Wildlife

I heard the frogs before seeing them – a pulsating, rhythmic hum that ebbed and flowed across the afternoon air. This frog chorus was hypnotic and alluring, and accompanying their gentle croaks were the rougher ‘qwark-qwark’ calls of mating toads.

I was on the approach to a remote hill pond near my home, which I had only discovered a few months previously during deepest winter. At the time, I reckoned the pond looked the perfect place for spawning amphibians and now it transpired that my hunch had proved correct.

Not wanting to spook the frogs and toads, I crawled slowly towards the pond edge, a few short pulls of the arms and legs, then a short pause, followed by a few more. When close to the pond, some of the frogs and toads cavorting on the water surface spotted me and in a sudden swirl were gone. Non-plussed, I bided my time and soon their heads popped up and the air filled once more with their resonant calls.

This was heavenly paradise, nature in the act of procreation and the water continually rippled as the males vied for females, sometimes clambering on top of their backs and gripping tightly in the mating embrace known as amplexus.

Strangely, I had never previously seen frogs and toads together at the same time when mating. Normally, frogs spawn in early March with toads following a few weeks later. However, this was the earliest in the year I had ever seen toads active on a breeding pond, which in turn had resulted in the overlap with the frog spawning and was possibly a worrying sign of climate change.

In another bizarre twist, on some occasions male toads crawled onto the backs of female frogs as if to mate with them. A case of mistaken identity no doubt, but I did briefly ponder the seemingly implausible notion that frogs and toads might have the potential to interbreed and hybridise. It is an occurrence I have never heard of before and quickly dismissed it from my mind.

As I watched the amorous amphibians, a pair of grey wagtails alighted on the far side of the pond, and darted around snapping up tiny flies, before spiralling away again in an undulating flight.

After an hour or so, it was time to go, but on slowly turning my body,  I came face to face with a writhing ball of toads on the grass behind. A poor female toad had attracted the attention of two males, both of whom gripped tightly onto her back.  She slowly crawled along the ground with her unwelcome cargo – a ponderous and energy-sapping process. Would she be able to shed one of the males by the time she reached the pond, or would she have to endure both for several days to come?

With such pressures, it is hardly surprising that many toads succumb at this time of year – it may be the season of renewal, but the dark cloud of death is forever present.

Why cities are rich places for wildlife

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On February 20, 2025

In Wildlife

A male blackbird busily turns over fallen leaves in search of worms and a flock of goldfinches twitters in a tree above – but I am not out in the wilds of the countryside, but instead near the centre of Aberdeen at the start of the Deeside Way by Duthie Park.

The route follows the line of the Old Royal Deeside Railway from Aberdeen to Banchory, through woodland and farmland to Kincardine O’Neil and then rejoins the old line from Aboyne to Ballater, a total distance of over 40 miles. The railway line opened in 1853 and closed in 1966. It ran originally from Aberdeen to Banchory, but was extended to Ballater in 1866.

My focus was on the first stretch from Duthie Park to Holborn Street and immediately I was drawn into its green surroundings and the tranquillity from the bustle of city life. I watched the male blackbird for a while as it busily foraged in among the leaves. A couple of other blackbirds on a wall nearby squared-up to one another in a territorial dispute, with the nesting season ahead very much on their minds.

Surprisingly, perhaps, blackbird densities and those of many other songbirds are typically higher in cities than in the surrounding countryside. Cities and towns are often natural havens and true wild sanctuaries. Aberdeen is especially so – think of the numerous green spaces – parks and golf courses, cemeteries and playing fields. There are the rivers Dee and Don, and the wild corridors of the railway embankments. And, of course, there is the beach where terns dive for fish in the summer and exquisite  goldeneye ducks bob in the water during winter.

Then, there are the multitude of gardens where nectar-rich flowers attract insects, while ornamental bushes and trees provide places for songbirds to nest in spring and summer, and a rich harvest of berries to feast upon in autumn and winter. Garden bird feeders provide ready sustenance during the dark days of winter, and well-kept lawns are perfect places for song thrushes and starlings to eagerly probe for worms and grubs. Buildings provide safe places for house martins, swifts, house sparrows and even peregrine falcons to nest. The sheltered aspect of the built environment of Aberdeen creates a warmer, more benign micro-climate compared to the surrounding countryside, making it a welcoming sanctuary for wildlife.

I wandered further down the walkway until my attention was caught by a pair of dunnocks flitting in among a bramble tangle. A silver birch nearby hung heavy with bird-nest like structures known as witches’ brooms. They are abnormal tree growths caused  by fungal, viral or bacterial activity that results in the growth of the buds spiralling out of control, producing a multitude of tangled, side stems.

This little corridor of nature through the heart of Aberdeen abounded with all forms of magical life and I had become completely smitten by its wild charms. Nature and humanity can prosper together and this beautiful walkway was the perfect example of such mutual co-existence.   

 

 

The wild aura of the Insh Marshes

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On November 27, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

The flat expanse of the Insh Marshes swept away in the distance, glowing ochre under the soft autumnal light.

From my vantage point on a slope in Lynachlaggan wood, my mind visualised the intricate mosaic of pools scattered across this rich, natural bogland that covers 10 square kilometres of the River Spey floodplain between Kingussie and Kincraig. This swampy paradise is home to breeding curlew, lapwing, redshank and snipe, and the whole area acts as a giant natural sponge, holding water and allowing it to slowly drain back into the River Spey.

At this time of year, it is an important haunt for wintering whooper swans, wigeon and tufted duck, while hen harriers can sometimes be glimpsed quartering over the ground in search of prey.  Dusk was settling, and I scanned my binoculars across the landscape in the hope of spotting a harrier coming in to roost, but this vast marshland lay tantalisingly empty.

No matter, for only a short while before in the wood at Lynachlaggan I had watched a great-spotted woodpecker on a lichen covered alder probe eagerly for invertebrates, moving up the trunk in short, jerky bounds. This bird was meticulous in its search for creatures hiding under the bark, examining each section of the trunk closely with scrutinising eyes, before moving up to the next. Once it had reached the top of the alder, it took to the air in an undulating flight to alight on a nearby birch to begin the process all over again.

The autumnal dankness of the air had an earthy aroma, a natural perfume of moss, decaying wood and peaty soil that aroused the senses in a way that only nature can. Normally we perceive nature by sight, sound and touch, but its redolence is equally compelling and is deliciously addictive.

The walk at Lynachlaggan is a delightful relatively short circular trail, and my course was frequently interrupted as I stopped to examine the profusion of fungi scattered on the ground. There were brown birch boletes and red-capped fly agarics, and on a decomposing tumbled tree trunk a cluster of sulphur tuft toadstools glimmered like a beckoning beam of light. Fungi are one of the bedrocks of the natural world – they are recyclers, nutrient providers for plants and underpin every type of habitat there is. Many have developed mutually beneficial relationships with trees and without fungi our woodlands would be much impoverished.

Then, another burning incandescence shone from the edge of the trail. It was a small huddle of scarlet waxcaps, their umbrella caps burnished and beautifully polished. The gills on the undersides where soft and yielding to the touch, the scarlet colour of each toadstool complementing the dark-green of the mosses all around.

The hen harriers out on the marsh may have proved elusive, but the woodpecker and the fungi had provided ample compensation – and the lack of harriers provided the perfect excuse to return to Lynachlaggan on another day in the hope of spotting one settling in to roost in the dwindling gloaming light.

 

Ptarmigan

In search of the ptarmigan

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On September 26, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

It was like searching for a needle in a haystack –  instinct told me that ptarmigan were watching my every move on this 3,000ft high boulder field in the mountains by Glenshee, but their cryptic plumage had merged these subarctic grouse seamlessly into the stark lunar landscape.

Their droppings lay scattered around the summit of Carn Bhinnein and it almost seemed as if the birds were taunting me by their near presence. Camouflage is their means of survival and despite my frustration at being unable to find any ptarmigan, a begrudging admiration swept my mind at their ability to maintain perennial concealment.

After much fruitless searching, I abandoned the quest and instead focused on a cushion-like ball of hairy fluff nestled in among the rocks. It was woolly fringe-moss, a high mountain specialist with the most appropriate demeanour of appearing to have fleece-like insulation to protect itself from the cold mountain air.

It is a common moss of uplands, especially open, stony, windswept ridges and plateaux, and features intricate wispy twists and curls. Nearby lay another high montane specialist – fir clubmoss – which is more closely related to ferns than mosses. The rocks around me were encrusted with colourful lichens, and it felt like I had been drawn into a mysterious primeval world, surrounded by nature’s earliest creations.

I hunkered down in a gully out of the cool wind to ponder ptarmigan.  They are mountain chameleons, their  plumage changing with the seasons, merging and matching in sympathy with the surroundings. In winter, ptarmigan turn almost completely white, but the spring and summer plumage is more of a mottled grey and brown, with flashes of white. The feet are completely feathered, which not only prevents heat loss, but acts as a useful pair of snowshoes in winter.

Ptarmigan eat the leaves and shoots of arctic-alpine plants, as well as insects in the summer. The crowberry is important and ptarmigan feast upon their glossy black fruits in late summer.

Rising to my feet, I wandered further over the boulder field – five more minutes looking for ptarmigan, then I would call it a day. The five minutes stretched to 10, and then to 15, but the ptarmigan remained elusive, so I descended back down into a nearby glen. Late-season meadow pipits and skylarks bounded up in the air before me and a kestrel hovered above on quivering wings.

By a craggy knoll where a lone sentinel rowan stood, the mewing calls of a family of buzzards whirled across the breeze. It was a somewhat monotonous call, more akin to a seagull than a bird of prey. Soon, I spotted two of the buzzards, tumbling upwards on widespread wings before they swept away over a shallow-curved ridge.

I looked back up the glen towards the distant conical top of Carn Bhinnein from which I just descended, and wondered whether the ptarmigan were still watching me from their lofty vantage points in among the high boulder fields – invisible and inscrutable to the very last.

Grasses – delivering the air we breathe and the food we eat

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On September 2, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

The names roll deliciously off the tongue – fescues, bents, and Yorkshire fog – and which represent among our most ecologically important organisms of them all – the grasses.

Grass is so ubiquitous that we tend to take it for granted as an integral part of the landscape. And there is a truism there, for grasses are the environment,  found in abundance from the equator to the poles and prospering everywhere we look. They are the core foodstuff for a huge variety of creatures – and, of course, the foundation stone of our agriculture, whether to provide grazing for livestock or grain for our daily bread. Without grasses, nature and humanity are nothing, an empty vassal devoid of hope or meaning.

Bizarrely, perhaps, grasses are seldom remarked upon in nature writing, probably because they lack the powerful and impactful blooms of wildflowers. But grasses are as beautiful as any flower, and as I wandered recently through an ungrazed hill pasture near my home, huge sweeps of the delightfully named Yorkshire fog grass swayed in the breeze like a rippling sea.

Although not always immediately obvious to the eye, grasses do have simplified, wind-pollinated flowers that turn into seed heads as the season progresses. In Yorkshire fog, the flowers are tinged with pink and which often deepen into a deeper pinkish-purple before fading, and when they do so, will transform a pasture into a wonderful pallid hue.

On walking across the pasture, I endeavoured to identify as many species of grass as I could, and it became completely addictive, for the more I looked, the more was revealed, and it was impossible not to become smitten by their sublime beauty. One particularly eye-catching species was wavy hairgrass, with incredibly delicate, shimmering and almost translucent spikes. Other engaging species were red fescue, sweet vernal grass, common bent and silver hairgrass, each type exhibiting finesse and elegance in their shape and form.

I sat on a small, mossy mound surrounded by various grasses to reflect and immerse myself in their green and wonderful world of proliferate abundance. A small cricket crawled over one grass blade before disappearing into the thick and green tangled microworld where beetles scurried and lacewings rested.  A ringlet butterfly on dark-flashed wings twirled up into the air before quickly settling again.

Field voles would abound in this grassy area, and in the sky above, kestrels and buzzards often soar in anticipation of pouncing upon one. Grass is a fundamental building block of nature, underpinning so much other life.

Grasslands and have been described as Britain’s largest solar panel, absorbing sunlight and in the process taking-in carbon dioxide and converting it to oxygen. They deliver the air we breathe and the food we eat, and provide habitats that support a diverse array of life.  I sat for a while longer in this grassy margin, transfixed by a polka-dotted ladybird that had magically appeared, and which slowly climbed a frond of grass, before unfurling its wings and spiriting itself away into the warm summer updraft.

 

A beaver and her kit

An inspiring encounter with a beaver and her kit

By

On August 23, 2024

In Wildlife

An evening stroll along my local river – nightfall was approaching and I could sense a stirring in the air, as if the creatures of the gloaming were about to emerge.

I scanned the opposite bank in hope of spotting an otter or a kingfisher, but it was a dark, furry rotund form at the bottom of a steep section of bank that caught my eye – a beaver! It was grabbing overhanging leaves and other luxuriant vegetation with its front paws and munching with such enthusiasm that the chewing noise was clearing audible.

Then, another movement, this time in the water – a small brown head swimming with a V-shaped wake across the river towards the sandy shelf where the other, much larger, beaver was feeding. This was a beaver kit – young and full of the zest of life, and a standard bearer to the integral beauty of nature and the hope of a new beginning. The kit emerged onto the bankside to greet its mother, rising on its hind-legs as if in celebration of their reunion.

They both fed together for several minutes, before sliding back in the water, their long paddle tails slithering along the sand bank as they did so. Beavers are remarkable creatures – unusually for a rodent, the parents are faithful and pair for life, and the young are born fully-furred with open eyes, and can swim from the moment of birth.

Watching the mother and kit was an emotional experience, and it was like spiralling back into the depths of time when wolves and bears once roamed Scotland and it was a truly wild place.  As such, the return of beavers to Scotland after centuries of extinction is something we should all celebrate, for they belong here and are as much part of our rivers as are trout and salmon.

Beavers do sometimes come into conflict with farming and other landowning interests – I fully understand that – but the environmental benefits they bring are immense and in the  21st century it should not beyond the wit of humanity to live with nature, rather than continually seek to destroy it.

Research has consistently shown that where beavers are present, biodiversity is significantly enhanced by their activities, making them animals to cherish.   In areas where beavers dam small burns, the large ponds created above abound with invertebrates, amphibians and water plants. Many trees felled are coppiced rather than killed and will spawn new green shoots of recovery. The clearings created enables sunshine to filter to the ground below, enabling, wildflowers and their pollinators to prosper. Tumbled trees slowly rot, providing refuge and places to reproduce for a host of other invertebrates and fungi. A tree felled into a river acts like an ocean reef, providing shelter for fish and many micro-creatures.

The activity of beavers has been engrained in the natural order since the dawn of time, ensuring a diverse environment that supports more life than would otherwise be possible, which in turn brings vitality to our environment that benefits us all.

 

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