But there are compensations. Winter trees are so beautiful, stark and almost architectural in their cold weather uniform. I marvel at the reeds, commonplace in the fens that still stand tall despite Winter's sternest onslaught, their bleached fronds skeletal yet proud until the very end. Then of course there are the owls.
I hear reports across the Fens of owls flying by daytime. They too are weary of the winter. Inexperienced youngsters hunting at all hours of the day merely to survive are joined by the more established adults as the weather turns.
There is a paradox to what I do. Because the owls at ours have the luxury of extra food they have less necessity to hunt during the day. I rarely see them. If I do, the hunting opportunities here are so good that they can avoid me and continue quartering elsewhere. If I am walking down the field they can scan the riverbank. If I am heading along the road, the dykes and ditches that stitch the patchworked, Fenland fields will hopefully offer up a vole or maybe two. Knowing they are safe and sated means missing out on a owlish fly past is the preferred state of affairs.
Last weekend changed all this. Storm Ciara produced the worst weather for barn owls. Strong winds accompanied by rain are impossible conditions for owls but it was the relentlessness of these conditions that made them so difficult. Even when the storm had passed we had day after day of blustery conditions. I anxiously watched the weather willing conditions to ease, not just for the owls on the farm but for our autumn fledglings who have recently dispersed.
As I drove across the fens I saw owls everywhere. Two villages away I was surprised by a deep buff coloured female leaving a vacant farm building. I noticed the "sold" sign attached to the hedgerow and hoped that the new owners were delighted by her presence and would accommodate her. Closer to home I was relieved to see the owl that has been hunting close to the bridge where the Fenland drains head away to sea. Within seconds I see a second bird heading in the same direction. These could quite likely be our youngsters and I scan for a roost site. A huge straw stack looms just metres from the road. The gaps between the bales will provide decent shelter for these two and I determine to watch out for them.
On returning home I was less than surprised to see one of our owls out and hunting the field margins. I watched in horror as it quartered the bank closest to the road. It must have realised the precariousness of its actions as, with a twist of its body, it turned and flew high over the oncoming cars to continue its hunt to the north of our fields. Later, whilst walking the dog I saw not one but two out before three in the afternoon. In the golden light of the fading day they looked majestic as they asserted their right to patrol those familiar paths that have proved so lucrative before.
It is, however, a chance meeting mid week that has stayed with me. It was another sunny afternoon but I assumed that the keen wind would deter any owls. One must have been hungry. I first noticed it as I counted a flock of deer just a field away. In the ditch close to them was the unmistakable fluttering of a barn owl and it was coming my way. I sat on the dyke edge and watched knowing that if I kept still she would fly directly past me. I don't know how close she may have ventured as the dog came lumbering back to me and I saw her turn her head sharply at his approach, but still she continued onward, watching us warily. She was labouring against the wind, staying low in a bid to gain some shelter and every few seconds she glanced in trepidation at us. It was immensely satisfying to see that she had a vole in her talons.
An encounter such as this one stays with you long after the event. I can still see her heading towards me, the sun accentuating the patterning of her wings, the intent look upon her face as she laboured along, the softness of her underside ruffled in the wind. Perhaps winter has its advantages after all.
