Commiseration.

It is done. The urgency and vibrancy as the young owls found their independence has passed. It is only two weeks since I last wrote my blog yet the changes over the farm yard can be seen and felt almost daily. For those of you who joined me to watch as I fed the owls over the Christmas period, you were lucky. Already there is an eerie calm settling at dusk over the flatlands, over the dykes and ditches, and the patchworked fields that I call home.

This is my eighth spring with the owls and I anticipated this next, very necessary, chain of events. Some of the reason for this lull in activity comes from the settled weather. Calm, dry nights allow the owls to hunt for themselves. My offerings are reassuringly a last resort, a lifeline in the harshest of times, a dependable source of sustenance but they prefer to follow their instincts. However previous years have taught me that January is the month when the autumn owlets begin to disperse and truly find their wings.

As the year turned I was still greeted by a flurry of activity. The incessant hissing from the owlets never failed to make me smile as they reacted to my whistling and I rewarded their impudence with a ready supply of food. As their flying skills improved they could be seen in all directions across the farm, flying from sheds and straw stacks, often almost bumping into me in their haste and then screeching that half formed articulation that told me they were neither owlet or adult. I loved these evening walks, my favourite of the past year, and was proud to share them with my visitors.

As January nears its end, some of the owls have undoubtedly left the farm. I am still greeted by numerous owls but they have learned to wait patiently, to fly in for food in an orderly fashion and to behave as is expected of such a regal bird. Invariably my whistling is met with birds lifting up into the farm yard lights and heading over to the house, to where I first feed. Tonight there were six sitting companionably around in the trees, eager but reserved, waiting for me to leave. I watched them fly in and deftly take their share before flying to trees or sheds to eat. One unintentionally flew unbelievably close and I was thrilled to the pit of my stomach. My most melancholy moment comes as I walk over to the straw stack. The barn that the fledglings roosted in now houses just one owl and only occasionally do I hear the softest of hissing, an instinctive reaction almost like an imprint. I miss them tumbling out one after the other from the gap above the door and eyeing me warily. I miss their antics entirely.

On work days I walk the dog before dusk. Two weeks ago there were four owlets hunting in the farm. They sat on the shed roof, balanced in the straw and perched expectantly in the bleached branches. All stared intently at the ground as if they could will a vole to appear. The following week there were just two that circled round as soon as they saw me. This week only one sat watching me from the ash tree. As I returned it flew from a pile of zinc and sat expectantly on the east feeding platform. I was heartened that it knew me but sorry it was hungry and that I couldn't oblige it.

But there are commiserations. The adult owls have begun to show a consistency in their behaviours that indicates they are pairing up and considering nest sites for the coming spring. Barn owls begin to reestablish the bond with their mates very early in the year and I am hopeful that we will have two pairs once more. As I peer through the shed door I see an owl roosting on the shed eaves perhaps indicating its preference for this highly sought after nest site. Another regularly flies out of east nest box, a sure sign that this too is being considered. Once more, after weeks with barely a sign  the little owls are also showing more readily. I see them both morning and night perched motionless close to a tree branch with those piercing eyes fixed intently upon my movements. Their reappearance gives me huge pleasure and consolation.

Today I drove the Thorney by pass with the deliberate intention of looking for road casualties. As I neared the final stretch my heart lifted as I had seen no little lifeless bodies but my optimism was premature. There, on the central reservation was a buff coloured pile of feathers. A gap in the hedging that borders this road had allowed it through and to its death. This was most likely a youngster dispersing. I will it not to be one of ours that I have watched with such affection. I fervently hope those are safe and growing in expertise in their brave, new worlds and I anticipate that they are close enough to know that in the harshest of times there is a little corner of fenland that will always welcome them.