Turning

I love the stillness that surrounds the winter solstice. It seems as if, as the earth turns on her axis there is a momentary stillness as she holds her breath. With the Christmas season upon us too, the little traffic we see this way ceases and there is an unearthly quiet to my owlish endeavours. It feels as if midwinter has signalled to all that this is a time to hunker down, to rest and to reflect.

Yet, within less than a week of the shortest day I am seeing a difference in the owls' behaviours. The youngsters are now flying confidently over to the house with me. Just a couple remain in the shed, hissing impudently at me as I approach. One waits in the open sheds, sheltered and safe until I arrive.Two others have taken to west nest box on the dutch barn and fly to the trees hissing as they go. It is a privilege to watch them as they gain their independence.

I am always delighted to share my evening walk and last Monday I had visitors to watch. It fills me with apprehension having written so enthusiastically about my wonderful fly pasts and as my guests stood on the bridge the farm appeared just like any other, still and lifeless. However when I began to whistle my familiar call they appeared, beautifully white and flew gracefully through the farm lights over to the house where they knew we would walk first. Arriving on the lawn they were assembled, perched in trees and circling close by keen for the food to be shared. I held back for a few minutes knowing they would stay and we could watch for a while. As the minutes passed more arrived until we counted six owls in total across the grassy expanse. Four flew in for tea as we stood watching. I always leave once the bravest have fed knowing that my faithful female will wait until I am out of sight and if I over stay my welcome she may go hungry.

Over by the shed and the dutch barn I left my guests to watch from the straw stack and made my way out of the farm as usual. Sure enough, owls returned to this corner of the farm too. More youngsters left the shed in a flurry of excitement and an older bird flew within metres to take food from the dutch barn platform. It was a spectacular viewing. I almost felt as if the owls had conspired with me, knowing I wanted to show them at their best and so they duly obliged.

The only thing my owl enthusiasts didn't see was the owls fly alongside me as I walk to the yard. One graced me with its presence on Christmas Eve, flying upward from a fence post and then measuring its flight with my stride so it continued alongside me the whole way down the road. I know it is hunger that prompts such actions but it makes me immeasurably happy to watch this.

You would imagine that seeing these beauties each evening makes a snatched sighting as I drive home less exciting but the opposite is true. Somehow it adds to the experience. On my way to work I spotted an owl close to the bridge that acts as a county border less than a mile from us. It was sitting quite nonplussed on a dyke side watching the traffic. Two evenings later I saw an owl in the same vicinity hunting from a post. The car headlights captured it beautifully and its upright stance and intent stare are appliqued on my heart. At such a short distance away this could well be one of our autumn fledglings making its first forays out into the world.

Closer to Thorney, I was delighted to see the very dark female owl hunting along her favourite dyke. Paddy recaptured one of our 2016 fledglings here this summer. It was where I tried to help a sodden owl during a downpour in April and where I had taken chicks during a wet spell in June. I watched her circle warily away from the traffic. With her especially grey flecked feathers she was spectacular.

My final Christmas owl encounter was a sad one. I am always watching out for road casualties and usually I find myself staring intently at a McDonald's wrapper but along the A16 I was saddened to see an owl close to the Cowbit roundabout. It looked to have been hit and struggled to the grass verge to die and I was sorry I had not passed that way earlier, in time perhaps, to help it.

Somehow getting involved with my owls makes these encounters across the fens even more significant. I know in the new year as the days lengthen and activity increases I will see  many more both memorable and heartfelt. I will be ready for them.

Learning something new.

I do not need to tell you how much I enjoy my evening jaunt down to feed the owls. Even mid week when I went out for a meal, I spruced myself up including make up and heels, then I exchanged the heels for wellies so I could drop the food off on my way out.

Part of the satisfaction comes from seeing those familiar patterns unfolding again and again. As the summer came to an end I was doubtful that I would have my fantastic winter fly pasts but here I am once more, encountering some of the most fabulous spectacles I have ever witnessed. It is immensely satisfying to walk down the road whistling and see the owls responding, flying upwards through the shed lights and turning effortlessly as they make their way over to the house to wait for me. As usual the outsider is sitting expectantly. It has found a safe place deep within the walnut tree branches and flies in first hoping for a quick getaway but midweek was chased by two of our adults. I watched by the light of the full moon as they flew low across the sodden fields. I do wish they were more tolerant. This is one familiar pattern I wish I didn't experience.

Similarly I am blessed to have the youngsters staying for the winter. Usually the adults would have sent them on their way by now but the routine here is that the autumn broods get to stay much longer. The extra food means they are allowed their safe roost and sustenance during the harshest of seasons. I have seen this again and again. It is one of the benefits of supplementary feeding and gives me an especial pleasure in knowing I am helping them in this way.

However, each year, each season, also teaches me something new. This year I have learned that the youngsters from two broods will mix together quite readily and I have witnessed the older ones feeding the younger ones and encouraging them out to find food for themselves. I have also been captivated to watch them roosting together in the barn, cuddled together on the beam. My morning photo has been a particular highlight as I count five or six birds most mornings so you can imagine my consternation when, after a few days without looking my photo revealed not a single bird and this has continued throughout the week.

My worries regarding the lack of roosting owls have been unfounded. At feeding time they tumble from the shed almost falling over each other in their haste. I regularly count four leaving whilst others fly close and wait on the dutch barn roof for their siblings to appear. I can only assume that they are roosting in the nest box now the weather is so cold.  Once more I have learned something new.

There is a new behaviour that has perplexed me but this week I am beginning to make sense of this too. Some nights the youngsters appear immediately from the shed whilst other night they stay inside hissing insistently for a good ten minutes. This behaviour doesn't seem linked to hunger or weather conditions. I think back to the night they all appeared whilst I stood close to get my photo. Indeed tonight they came out as I stood by the straw and watched me walk by as inconspicuously as possible. Suddenly I realise the link. They do not appear until they hear another bird outside. I assume they see this as their cue that all is safe and it is indeed a clever survival strategy. I think back to the time they heard the outsider land on their food platform. Unaware that it was an unfamiliar bird that was flying low and keen directly over my head they tumbled out assuming the coast was clear.

The year is nearly at a close. I wonder how many familiar patterns I will continue to have the pleasure to watch and whether I will learn anything new from my feathered friends in those final few days.

Changes changes.

  In the middle of the fens we have had rain since mid September. Relentless showers, downpours that last for days, mornings that promise dry weather but invariably revert to the damp status quo that has become Autumn 2019. It is terrible weather for owls and I predict empty nest sites next spring where there should have been an abundance of young owls to fill every one.

My fortunate youngsters continue to thrive although I walk the fields with trepidation after finding one of the youngsters dead a month back. Only this morning I approached a piece of white plastic with dread, grabbing the dog and edging closer before relief flooded over me. When you watch the youngsters with such pleasure you also imagine their sad demise wherever you go.

I have, almost by accident, found a novel way of checking on them. After peeping through the circular door handle on the shed I realised that if I pointed my phone through I could get a photo without disturbing them and make sure they were present and correct. Sometimes four, often five and occasionally six birds could be seen perched close together on the furthest beam. Often they were alternating facing forwards backwards in a sequenced pattern. I wonder if this was for warmth. It certainly warmed my heart to see them sitting so companionably close.

Each evening follows a predictable pattern. As soon as I whistle I see owls lift upwards through the farm lights and head towards the house. I assume they are adults but last night one struggled against the wind and landed in the field. It was classic adolescent owl behaviour. Someone couldn't wait for their tea. Now the leaves have fallen I can clearly see them waiting in the surrounding trees. The fly in immediately deftly snatching the chicks and heading away. I watched with pity as an especially brave bird took its tea only to be chased by two others. Feeding over here allows them the space they will need as the youngsters think about dispersing and I will increase the amount over time.

Once I reach the shed the hissing reaches a crescendo. I feel a little nervous as I leave the food, half expecting a hungry owl to appear above me but they wait for my cues. I feed at the dutch barn , often picking out a kestrel or little owl and then walk away but not before I flash the torchlight into the shed. Four or five waiting owlets can be seen on the beam. They will not appear until I leave. However once I have quietened and reached the roadside out they spill, perching expertly on the door ledge now and peering out into the night. They fly down immediately and there is a clash of wings as they choose their tea and head off around the shed. As the autumn continues it becomes ever more difficult to tell the youngsters from the adults.

On the days that I work my morning dog walk coincides with dawn and I have been delighted to see the owls flying as I enter the farm. One morning three were exploring the yard together and fly back into the shed on my approach. Another time two were hunting the dyke side ahead of me and I watch with satisfaction as one broadly circles back to the shed roost with an ease and surety that fills me with confidence about its capabilities. A third encounter sees one leave the straw silhouetted against a coral sky. The kestrel sets out in pursuit but it no longer has the advantage and the owl twists and turns almost languidly against the smaller aggressor. They do not always go to roost. I notice one perched on my beehives staring intently at me as I return. I avoid its gaze and stay well away. There maybe food later in the evening but in order to hunt successfully they must be left alone to focus on this important task.

As the weather settles I become aware that they are less reliant upon my food. They are becoming more capable hunters and the weather is allowing them to hone their skills. In turn I slowly reduce my offering leaving enough for them to survive and continue to live peacefully alongside each other whilst encouraging them to follow their natural instincts. It is a fine balance.

I won't have too many more evenings where I am greeted by such a host of owls. This morning I pointed the camera through the door to check my owlets and the beam was empty. Whether I am ready or not there are signs that changes are afoot. Tonight they were waiting still as raucous as ever. I will enjoy their company whilst I still can.

Bittersweet times.

It is the most bittersweet of times. The owlets are fledging, growing braver by the day. Having watched how hard their mother has worked to rear them this far and how resilient these youngsters have proved to be in the worst autumn weather I can remember, I feel proud, and scared, joyful and tentative all at once.

At least one leaves the safety of the farmyard each afternoon to try its luck hunting along the dyke sides to the south of the farm. I see it most days, flying in short bursts and staring indignantly into the grass as if its mere presence will scare the voles into submission. When it finds this tactic doesn't work it stares wilfully across at me as if asking me to halt the incessant rain. If only I could.

At the weekend I was concerned that the hissing from the first brood, that had made a cosy teenage roost in west nest box, had ceased. I was sorry to think they might have left the farm but knew this was eventually an inevitability. However the hissing from the shed was incredible. Peeping inside each morning reassured me that there were four or five birds roosting on the roof struts inside. I knew there would be more within the nest box. It appeared that all of the owlets had joined forces and were making use of the warm shed as the weather closed in. It also made feeding them easier as the parents were called to this shed rather than following owlets hissing from all directions. I watched on Monday as mum alighted on the shed door and was immediately ambushed by two youngsters. Has she not taught them any manners?

Each evening brought something new as they grew in confidence. They quickly learned to leave the shed to help themselves to food as soon as they imagined I had left. On Tuesday two deftly flew down and carried off food to the safety of the straw stack, a third chose to take one down onto the ground and was harangued by a hungry sibling who hadn't worked out where to get the food from. A fifth bird chose a different tactic and hovered in a territorial manner over the two on the ground in the hope of scaring them away and securing the food for itself. The night was still and, for once quite dry. I knew it would be a good night for them to explore their surroundings further.

As soon as I entered the farm the following morning I felt uneasy. The dog sensed something different and sniffed frantically, barking at the straw stack yet the source of his angst was no longer present. I found feathers, five maybe six and knew this could just have been a skirmish amongst the youngsters. I also knew I would need to scour the fields on my walk. The longer I pounded the fields the more confident I became that nothing was amiss. I was heading back towards the grass field when I spotted it. An owl, wings splayed, head back, undoubtedly dead but only recently killed. Bloody wounds to its wing joint and neck told me it likely assailant would have been a fox and I did notice a footprint in the soft clay before Max bounded over to destroy any evidence.

There was no ring which meant it was either the second of the young owlets from the shed that was too small to ring in September or one of our adult females that I know is also unringed. Examining the wing feathers showed the bird was a fully fledged female and the pattern, which is unique to each bird, was unfamiliar to me. There was an outside chance that it was a bird from another farm but my instinct told me it was indeed one of our youngsters. I remembered how triumphant I had been to save one of these youngsters from the woodpile. How I had listened to them night after night. How I had watched them only the night before cavorting almost comically across the yard.It had been short lived revelry for this individual. I hoped its death had at least been quick. Carrying it over to our land I realised what a rather pathetic figure I made stooped over this sad pile of feathers. It always seems wrong to bury a bird like this that flies so majestically but I decided to dispose of the body rather than draw attention from other predators.

That evening I knew I had to wait and watch to see if I could ascertain if anyone was missing. Most importantly to try to see if an adult was absent. I left the food and waited a good way off by the farm gate. As if to compound my misery not one bird appeared. I stood  still willing something to happen. It was only when the intruder flew over my head and briefly landed on the platform, before flying back out to the north that the owlets came to life. I thought this bird had been silent in its approach but they heard him and spilled out of the shed each one tumbling after the other. They hissed and mantled over the food seemingly as furious as the adults are that another should dare take their food. It was notable that they all headed for the straw and I wondered what they may have witnessed the night before.

I cannot dwell on the saddest moments of what I do. When we lose a bird I always question the events surrounding its death. Did my feeding encourage it out too soon? Did I not feed enough and force it out thus making it vulnerable? Does producing this many owlets on one site encourage predators. I have to remind myself that I do the best I can and that I make a difference.I cannot do more.

As if the owls knew my melancholy, as if they sensed my bruised emotions they bestowed upon me the most marvellous fly pasts this evening. The usual three adults met me by the house, flying low and keen. As I approached the shed there was a notable absence of hissing but rounding the corner I found three handsome young owls waiting on the platform, staring disconsolately at it as if this alone would conjure up a feast. They too flew round behind the shed. On approaching the straw stack the usual hissing struck up and I counted two more in the west nest box and a further two high up in the straw. My torchlight picked out a further two still inside the shed. I watched with delight as they flew in to take the food, bumping, hissing, mantling and almost colliding in their clumsy haste.  What a treat. What a week. Bittersweet indeed.

Too good to last.

I am so weary of this weather. As I write the rain continues, pouring endlessly from the slate grey expanse. October has gifted us two dry days so far but even those had late showers resulting in wet grass for the owls to hunt in. I hear that the bumper second broods produced countrywide after a glut of voles are struggling. A raptor centre locally has young owls to rear after finding them near starving. I know how lucky my birds are.

But their urgency to secure a free meal from me has increased. The adults fly buoyantly alongside me now. Midweek one flew in to a feeding platform whilst I stood just three steps away. I know because I counted back after it had deftly snatched its tea and flown eastwards to the trees. Such bravado belies desperation. My elation at their greeting is mixed with frustration for them as harsh times make life so difficult for them.

The owlets continue to amuse me. They shriek and hiss at me at dusk when my route takes me past the straw stack. How dare I walk so close without bringing food. After dark their urgency is palpable and I can hear them hissing before I reach the farm yard. Once over by the straw stack I pick them out, peering anxiously at me, daring to stay out as long as they can. Some times they fly along the dyke edge but more often they disappear into the straw. Which ever they choose their insistent hissing continues.

Although I rarely see the adults feed these youngsters I still wait to make sure the female goes into the shed to feed her still dependent younger owlets. She flies back to the shed as soon as I am out of sight and bustles herself with the important job of sustaining the owlets single handedly. I have noticed her this week most mornings hunting along the river. When it was windy this capable, innovative mother hunted from the pipe low down where she can keep an eye out for voles without having to contend with the harshest of the weather.

I have been also been peering through the door chink both mornings and at teatimes on my dog walk. I scour the dusty floor for any owlets in trouble. This seems a compromise between leaving them alone completely and going into the shed each day which would be hugely intrusive as it is rarely opened. On Wednesday, as the sun was leaving us, I peered inside to see three fully feathered owlets perched just outside the nest box peacefully snoozing. As unobtrusively as possible I crept away. I was captivated but my pleasure was short lived.

On Thursday morning I peered inside and immediately saw something white and still, close to the wall. I knew without going inside what it was. Sure enough it was one of the younger owlets as it was unringed, perhaps the one I rescued a week or so back, possibly its younger sibling. It was dead but, to add to my consternation still fairly fresh. Its wings were beginning to form but it was still quite fluffy. I checked the shed thoroughly but all the others seemed to be inside the box.

As is my way I went into overdrive trying to work out the scenario of events leading up to its death. The main question was whether it had died and been ejected from the box or whether it had fallen. It seemed a little too far away to have been cast out, yet I hadn't seen it the night before and there was a fresh day old chick close by. Surely if it had been alive and well on the floor it would have taken the chick. It did however seem very light and I feel that it must have starved. Despite the past couple of days having being dry, the task of keeping five young owlets alive so late in the season had been a job too difficult for our single mum, even with my help.

My worst fear? That actually it was my fault. That in checking them, I inadvertently caused it to fall. Or that later in the evening, in the melee that occurs on my approach with food, this youngster was pushed. Its at times like this that I question what I do. I feel the loss so keenly, I cannot seem to harden myself to such events. I console myself with the fact that these two younger birds would have struggled to fledge so late in the year but still I dwell on the events of mid week. Finally I tell myself it is all pointless the owlet is no more. I will check the box early next spring and make sure it is as safe as possible. I have been debating cameras. This box may be a good site to start with. It would be another clever way to count them out and count them back in again. I resolve not to be defeated and continue, at least for now.

Owl wars

We have owl wars at the farm. There are screeches and sparring and the whirling of wings throughout the evening. For some reason the barn owls are not happy but neither are the little owls. Meanwhile the chittering of a kestrel is now a common vocalisation alerting me to their uneasiness also.

I take what I have observed and try to construct a plausible version of events to explain the owls unease. Perhaps the short eared owl is still making its presence felt. Twice this week I have seen it at dusk flying high and proud along the dykes and ditches that border the farm. This newcomer would certainly worry our resident barn owls and there is a possibility that it has happened upon my twilight banquet.

With the little owls as vocal as the barn owls I wonder if they too have produced second broods and are asserting themselves within the hierarchy. Three  neighbours have told me how these indignant pepper pot raptors have woken them with their incessant chiding this week. I smile to myself remembering the telling off they regularly gave me during June. Young little owls would be a tremendous bonus for October.

Meanwhile the kestrels regularly fly from the straw in alarm, their call less regular, but probably the loudest. I watch these with especial interest wondering which, if any, are the youngsters that were so rudely turned from east nest box by the impatient barn owls. Now fully feathered and flying confidently perhaps they feel it is their turn for superiority.

However as the week progresses I am forced to concede that the rivalry is primarily between the barn owls. On Monday I watch the shed female. By the farm gate I am well hidden but can still see her as she ferries seven prey items up into the shed. This is a relief as I had peeped through the door handle hole earlier and seen one of the younger owlets out of the nest box but roosting on the wood. The female was sitting with it during daylight hours but after dark it had gone.It was reassuring to see so many meals being taken inside and I felt sure once tea arrived this part grown owlet would have determinedly made its way back into the box. While watching this hardworking mum a second owl glided into the farm and perched waiting above her shed entrance. Ever opportunistic it flew down as soon as she disappeared inside to help itself to food. She appeared seemingly furious with the thief and a skirmish ensued directly in front of me. The clashes were audible as the owls wrestled towards the floor.This time the intruder won flying triumphantly out of the farm whilst our resident owl sat on the crew yard wall staring at me as I were somehow to blame.

With rain every day for the whole of October it is possible that other owls are so desperate for food that the shrieks coming from our resident birds are indeed aimed at visiting adults such as this one. They too will have hungry owlets and risk a confrontation in such circumstances. It is also possible that some of our summer brood owlets are returning during these harsh times and are no longer welcome. Last night at dusk I watch an owl inexpertly hunting across the fields, swooping down halfheartedly before landing awkwardly on a willow branch. An cameo brooch on a tatty tweed jacket. I would feed this unfortunate if I could.

But finally, a chink in the weather and I walk down upon dry grass and under clear skies. The owlets are as impudent as ever, bobbing and weaving at my approach and hissing raucously. But the hostility from the adults has ceased. With the opportunity to hunt for themselves the raids on the farm have ceased and the waning moon bathes the yard in a blanket of serenity. For the sake of the resident families I hope this fragile state of affairs can continue.

Breathless

October has been relatively kind to the owls. In previous years we have had severe storms as the second brood owlets fledge. This year they have had to contend with some incessantly wet weather. It is far from the blue skies and still, balmy evenings of summer but the owls can cope with these conditions. The fields continue to succumb to the plough as farmers carve up the owl's summer hunting grounds. Whilst I drove home yesterday I  gazed through the rain smeared window. Field after field reminded me of frosting on chocolate cake as the rain glistened across the flat, expansive fields.

The rain has meant the owls are keener for food. Most mornings this week I walked Max before seven. Most mornings I saw owls, hunting from fence posts, quartering the river and flying through their farm yard domain. As the sun rose I caught them diving for shelter in the dutch barn as the crows  mobbed the owls once again in their haste to claim their sun filled territory. I eagerly anticipated these  sightings, this little snapshot into their sunrise activities.

Feeding each evening has also been a delight. On Monday I watched them fly buoyantly through the farm to meet me by the house but even then I was surprised at the sight that greeted me. Three owls were waiting. One sitting on the fence, undoubtedly a youngster, staring almost stupidly at me before gathering itself and flying into the darkness. Meanwhile two others were dancing low in the field, fluttering almost butterfly like on their new found wings. A fourth was sitting on the nest box front peering down at me with that look of incredulity as if I really shouldn't be there. I love their audacity, their sense of entitlement and their youthful arrogance.

The following night I must have been slightly earlier. That or the weather had kept them in. I waited to watch them over by the dutch barn, sitting inconspicuously on a concrete slab in the shadow of the grain store. Within minutes they appeared, a head swivelling around the nest box edge and then a side stepping motion as first one then another vacated the natal nest. They spilled out onto the straw stack. I tried to count as they appeared one after the other but lost count of them in the fenland darkness. I couldn't tell parents from youngsters now except for the incessant hissing that seemed to reach me from all directions; from beams, from the trailer and from the straw. These youngsters personified confidence.

The brood in the shed are just metres away from all these happenings and I watched keenly to see how, if at all, the two families would interact. The female appeared as usual on the shed door and perused the area. She seemed in little hurry to take the food back inside for her family. She has perfected her technique of flying directly down to the platform that we have fashioned just for her directly under her door roost and flying vertically back up and inside to her hungry brood. I watched in fascination as she took first one, then another back into the shed. Suddenly her attention seemed to be taken by the youngsters in the straw. She glared across at them and without warning flew directly over into  the straw herself. I watched anxiously anticipating a skirmish, awaiting the shrill screech but nothing. A moment later she returned with a day old chick from the platform directly under their box. It was as if she was showing them that no one flustered her.  I realised, with a start, that I wasn't breathing and with some effort gulped in the cold, damp air. I knew I had to leave but how to do it without disturbing them is always a dilemma. I lowered my head and stepped slowly from the shadows walking deliberately towards the gate. It took some determination but I didn't look back.

The following night I was tempted to stay but I knew that the owls needed their space. Having heard very little hissing from the shed brood I waited at the gate to check that mum was taking food in and that all was well. As she seems to be a lone parent for whatever reason I feel compelled to watch and support her more closely. This brood are a few weeks younger and will need plentiful supplies as they build up their weight prior to fledgling. It was reassuring to see her appear on the door frame and I watched with amusement as another owl flew in and took food from her platform.It appeared to be one of our other adults because it took the food directly up to the dutch barn nest box. Without flinching the female flew over and stole one back. They reminded me of school children in a petty argument and I smiled despite myself.  While engrossed in the scene I was surprised to hear the low whirring of an owl as it flew overhead. Of course its wing were silent but as it flew into the farm my presence had startled it resulting in it vocalising its displeasure towards me. This one also flew straight to the shed platform before heading back out of the farm to the north. We often have an owl fly in from here and the realisation that we are supporting another second brood elsewhere filled me with pleasure.

As the week drew to a close and the wet weather continued, I was delighted to see all five owlets from the first brood on my Saturday evening stroll. Two have taken up residence in the west nest box, a sort of teenage den, and probably a much needed space as these beauties grow.They sat outside until I was almost upon them when they jumped into the box and began hissing loudly. A third was in the straw stack dodging my torchlight hiding in  the darkest recesses. I didn't see the other two but could pick out two different vocalisations from the natal nest as they called for the food they knew would arrive imminently. How wonderful. How very satisfying.

Scrambling

I am absurdly proud of the owlets. One of my favourite moments of the day happens as I approach the shed and whistle. I am greeted with a cacophony of owlets, hissing and scrambling about. They have learnt that my whistling heralds a food drop and their excitement is palpable. Without seeing them I can imagine the hustle and bustle inside both nest boxes as they rush to receive the offerings they have come to anticipate from the parents upon my arrival. As I am only a few yards from the dutch barn box I can hear these owlets too. It is immensely satisfying to know that I am helping them. October has brought with it some wet and dreary weather, terrible conditions for barn owls. I know the owlets are hungry as the parent birds follow me over to the house once more swooping in quickly and deftly for first helpings and are no longer content to wait for me to leave. It is at times like these that I am pleased they are used to taking the extra food. I can increase supplies and hopefully all will be well.

But my pride is also tinged with apprehension as the older owlets in the dutch barn begin to tentatively explore the straw. Initially I was concerned that one had ventured out and got stuck. It was out at the start of the week and by the second night it looked decidedly dejected. I scrambled into the straw with food and dreamt of starved, tatty bundles of feathers, their lives spent before they had even begun. By mid week the rain gave me a comforting clue. A deluge at teatime meant no owls met me in the straw. The rain had kept them in. They must have been sleeping by day in the nest box and were still inside, safe from the inclement conditions. It seemed I was right. The following night two were dancing in the straw. On my approach they put their heads down, held their wings aloft and half ran, half flew across the top of the straw. I pondered how such graceful birds could look so comical.

With my attention held by the older brood and the incessant hissing from the shed reassuring me, I had not worried unduly about the shed brood of five. I knew that it would be unlikely the female would rear them all this late in the year but judging by the noise I was confident they were thriving. On Saturday I walked through with the dog as usual, barely glancing at the shed. It was when I returned that my brother in law found me and told me there was a young owl that needed help.He had left it by the wood pile and when we returned it had decided it didn't want rescuing and promptly darted underneath the stack. I laid awkwardly in the narrow space and shone my phone torch along. Sure enough there it sat, hunched and dejected.

I am terrible at finding practical solutions but I could see it was still far too young to be out and I determined that I wasn't leaving until it was back in the nest box. I found a piece of wood and put it behind the baby so that it shuffled back to the end where we intended to grab it, but the owlet had other ideas. Yes it headed towards the end but then stood resolutely still. It knew its welcome party were close. Rob fetched me first a net to put over it and then a spade to put under it. Neither worked. but then the owl decided to play dead.  It slumped onto its side in the hope that we would lose interest and leave it alone. This is a great survival tactic but I had seen it too many times. This made things easier. I borrowed some gloves and laid flat in the dirt. At this angle I could just reach one of the owlets outstretched talons. Very gently I pulled it towards me before holding it close to my chest.

Success! I was hauled unceremoniously to my feet and brushed down. My clothes were filthy and my glasses were tangled in my hair but none of it mattered, the owlet was safe. A couple who had called for straw watched the rescue and were quite fascinated. I did my best to persuade them to look into an owl box for themselves before venturing up the ladder. Rob insisted that I was to finish the rescue and so I braved the extremely wobbly ladder. I hate heights. I am not physically adept. So with one hand clutching the owlet I slowly and painfully made my way up to the nest box one rung at a time. Each step seemed to make the ladder wobble ever more precariously and my knees had unhelpfully turned to jelly too. As I approached the box I decided not to look down and focused on the ball of fluff and feathers in my hand. Very tentatively I laid it on the nest box porch. It predictable played dead. A gentle prod from me sent it scrambling back in to its family. A job well done.

Of course afterwards are all the "What could have beens."   What if we hadn't seen it? What if it had stayed in the shed? What if it had been predated? But you can make yourself miserable with "What could have been." I was pleased to realise later that day that it was unringed. This meant it was one of the two youngest of the brood that were too young to ring two weeks ago. I imagined them out of the nest box awaiting mum's return. An overenthusiastic surge from the older owlets would have been enough to send this youngster flying. Hopefully amid the scrambling it will now stay safe. As usual I will be watching closely.