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.