A decade on from rogue rewilding, beavers are thriving in Devon

The beavers keep us waiting. By the side of a Devon river, over the course of an hour the fish jump, a kingfisher dives and an egret flaps. But for the two dozen people gathered at dusk — beaver o’clock — there is nothing.
Then it appears. There is a flash of brown under the water and a clatter of cameras above. It is furry, flappy and surprisingly graceful. The beaver is back.
Four hundred years ago Britain’s last beaver was killed — probably for its pelt. Today, though, beaver hats are out of fashion and rewilding is in.
Conservationists are calling for them to return across the UK, just as they already have, partly by accident, here. “We know from a huge body of research that these animals bring some quite significant and exciting changes to our wetland river environments,” says Matt Holden, from Devon Wildlife Trust.
Yet despite promises, despite Boris Johnson’s 2021 pledge to “build back beaver”, in England and Wales plans to reintroduce beavers have stalled. “Where’s the action?” says Holden.
To see why more beavers are a good thing, he said, you only have to look at what has happened in Devon.
No one knows how, but between ten and 15 years ago, the first wild beavers arrived here. At first, all there were were rumours. Like the nearby Beast of Bodmin Moor, the beavers were spotted in Devon in fleeting glances, glimpsed in implausible sightings — and dismissed as otters.
However, you can only ignore nibbled branches, grazed river banks and unexplained dams for so long. Soon, it was clear that beavers really had returned. How did they get here? An escape from a private enclosure? An epic transoceanic beaver exploration from mainland Europe?
Or was it rogue rewilding? Many suspect that conservationists, tired of the bureaucratic impediments to returning ancient species, frustrated by seeing reintroductions in Scotland, decided to circumvent regulations by smuggling in a pair of beavers.
If so, the strategy worked. Once there were beavery signs on the ground (and, in their lodges, under the ground), official beavers followed. Amid strong local support, beavers were taken from Europe, tagged and introduced to new habitats in Devon.
Over the course of a full beaver lifespan they have now been followed, photographed and studied and — in official academic reports — declared to be on balance a good thing. “The overwhelming weight of scientific evidence on the impacts of beaver reintroduction is positive,” Professor Richard Brazier, from the University of Essex said.
Also, we like them. Once, humans were the enemy of beavers. It wasn’t just their fur that we found valuable, it was their scent glands too — which were prized for their vanilla smell. Although, at the time they were confused for another part of the body. Medieval woodcuts show beavers being chased by hunters and gnawing off their own testicles to present to their pursuers, to save their lives.
As we reach the tenth anniversary of Defra-approved Devonian beavers, there is considerably less interest in their testicles and considerably more in their cute noses. There are beaver cafes, beaver merchandise, a healthy population of baby beavers and — on once straight and boring streams — ever-shifting beaver dams. And, each evening, there are people who come to spot them.
• Beavers born in Somerset lift hopes of rewilding
As 8.30pm approaches on the river — confusingly, it’s the River Otter — the beavers become bolder. One puts an ear adorned with a green tag above the water line and flops onto the bank. He nibbles at reeds. He masticates noisily. He gets photographed a lot.
Conservation researchers don’t name their animals. That kind of sentimentality is discouraged, in what is a serious science. So Holden only occasionally calls him Gordon the Beaver, before hurriedly correcting himself.
However charismatic Gordon is, though, the real economic case for his fellow beavers — if something furry and wet must be reduced to a spreadsheet entry — comes in what they do to the environment.
Twenty minutes’ drive away, cutting through the maize monocultures of a commercial farm, there is a little strip of woodland, too damp and soggy to be used. Here, there are also beavers. Holden stands on a dam: messy, bulky, leaky — and just occasionally patched up with stolen and nibbled maize.
When you manage waterways for flood protection, you build dams like this. It is hard work, said Holden. First you cut access, clearing trees for the HGVs. Then you move earth, bring in materials, and scar the soil. Afterwards, you have to maintain it.
Or, he said: “You can bring in a beaver … and they’ll go for it.”
The stream weaves and flows between pools. It makes wetlands and mudlands. It deposits sediment and runs clear. Most of all it takes its time. In storms four years ago, villages on an adjoining stream experienced once-in-50-year floods. Directly downstream from the beavers East Budleigh, the village where Walter Raleigh was born long after the loss of Devon’s last beaver, survived undampened.
Back on the River Otter, the light is fading. Gordon emerged from the underwater entrance to his lodge. This time, he is not alone. There is another beaver, younger than him. This time, they leave with purpose — with an intent to beaver away somewhere. But where that will be, the beaver watchers don’t know. Paddling together, they disappear into the Devon night.