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.
