As summer turns.

I remember early on in my teaching career thinking that the six weeks holiday heralded the beginning of summer. Now I have come to realise that by the time we say goodbye and good luck to our pupils the summer is already past its best. The greenery and lush abundance of June has faded into golds and yellows, the flowers that my bees worked so ardently are now soft seed heads and the harvest has already begun.

I notice this changing of the seasons when I feed the owls in that the evenings are already shorter. At the height of midsummer I could walk confidently down to the farm at eleven o'clock and still not need a torch. Now I am hurrying down before ten and on a cloudy evening the farm is already swathed in a darkness that seems unfamiliar and leaves me alert and edgy  How quickly I have forgotten the deep hues of a Fenland evening in December.

July brings a quiet calm to the owl's behaviour. The youngsters are beginning to hunt for themselves and as such the adult's urgency for food quickly dissipates. Midweek I decided to wait behind after feeding to see the owl's movements and glean clues from their farmyard when they assumed I had left. I found the perfect spot; a concrete block in the shadow of the grain store with perfect views of both nest boxes and also the combine shed. The air was warm and still after rain and I hugged my knees and smiled to myself. The anticipation of the show that was about to unfold in front of me still grips my attention with the fascination that it did from the start.

Within minutes the youngest owlet began hissing from the nest box. It is capable of flying but has learned that if it is present at the nest site it will be fed. It was reassuring to hear it calling so urgently and my satisfaction was compounded when it was joined by its sibling that flew haphazardly from a nearby tree and crash landed on the nest box. I sat captivated as the two youngsters greeted each other with a cacophony of sounds, a loud scuffling and their usual tap dance on the wooden nest box floor.

Their antics were so engaging that I hadn't noticed the little owl on the roof struts but it had noticed me. Even though I could only see its silhouette I knew it was staring directly at me with those oversized eyebrows raised and an expression of disbelief at my actions. Before I could react a barn owl appeared to my left and sat surveying the yard from the shed door. I knew it was imperative that I remained motionless or it would hear me. I froze barely daring to breathe and willing the little owl to remain silent and not give away my whereabouts. With my eyes firmly fixed on the barn owl I detected a noise to my right, a low thud which unnerved me entirely.It resounded across the farm yard two,maybe three more times and with my gaze towards the owl I couldn't turn to face whatever horror was in the opposite direction. I reasoned with myself that the kestrel, who has learned to fly after dark, was helping itself to food as this version of events was one I could handle. The little owl continued to behave itself and as such I settled down for the show.

The barn owl effortlessly left the shed door and collected the food below before flying over to the nest box inhabited by the youngsters. Although they were now quite capable of flying down for food themselves they demanded to be fed. The adult didn't make it into the box, instead it was rudely mobbed on the porch and sent off for more. Six times it collected food from two feeding stations and flew to feed them yet the youngsters continued to hiss. The clamour was so loud I even considered whether there were also other fledglings from a different brood in the box. 

When the owl adult bird decided that the youngsters were provided for, it took food into the shed but didn't stay inside to eat it. This could only mean it delivered supplies to its mate. It is quite plausible that she is building up her laying weight for a second brood and with the youngsters still at the first nest box it looks as if this pair have requisitioned the shed box for themselves. But what of the other pair that had a failed brood here in June?

The barn owl seemed still none the wiser of my whereabouts and I wanted to walk home without alarming it. I relish this game of cat and mouse which sets my heart racing and my adrenaline pumping. How to leave the farm yard without the owls realising I have been watching them for the past twenty minutes is indeed a challenge. Fortunately for me, it glided out of sight round to the house and I took the opportunity and swiftly left to walk home, satisfied with myself and the knowledge I had gleaned.

I was reassured that the youngsters were growing and thriving and that the adults were considering a second brood but I was puzzled as to where our second pair were. As I sat motionless that evening an owl had flown in for food and rather magnificently flew directly past me, so close I could feel the draft from its wings. Was this our second male taking food to his mate? I wondered about the owl that flies in from the north. Had our second pair grown tired of the competition especially with the kestrels behaving so dominantly this year and moved away only to fly back in for supplies? Yet as quickly as I considered this possibility I discounted it, as this individual has flown in for a good few years including times when we have ringed both broods. I scoured the farm for possible nest sites. The beehive box has stock doves in it and the kestrels are still using west nest box. With youngsters in east nest box and their parents in the shed all the nest boxes are occupied.

There is an owl that flies to the freshly stacked hay in the dutch barn by the road. I look carefully and find perfectly owl sized holes that could easily house these secretive birds. With a start I realise that on more than one occasion I have watched an owl fly here and anticipated its exit from the farm only for it to disappear. A nest here would be a new venture for the owls. Then I remember the chimney. We've had brood raised here before and my neighbour told me of the fuss the jackdaws had been making upon the chimney pot. On investigation I find a fresh owl pellet on the drive, a clue to their whereabouts or a total red herring? I am avidly watching.

Tenacity

It has been the most dreadful of weeks with unseasonably strong winds and incessant rain. This was such uncompromising weather for both the barn owls and the kestrels to fledge into, yet with unflinching tenacity that is exactly what these youngsters did. Having watched and nurtured them for so many weeks now, it has been a worrying time and one that I felt sure would come to an inevitably, sorry conclusion.

It began last Saturday as I braved the blustery conditions to check some of the hives. On returning to the farm John informed me they had seen one of the young owls flying low across the cut hay. This was mid afternoon and the wind was increasing by the minute. I found the youngster huddled uncomfortably behind some zinc pretending it wasn't there. Under normal circumstances it would have been able to get back up to the nest box but the previous night I had watched even the experienced adults struggle against the wind to reach the nest box porch. The challenge for this youngster was seemingly too great.

My dilemma was that this was not a helpless nestling and in attempting a capture, I would most likely send it out from this relatively safe roost. I chose instead to watch from a distance determined to search for it carefully at dusk when I knew it would feel less vulnerable. I walked down at ten o'clock whistling my welcome and immediately picked out a white figure in the field with a black outline close. The stray cat that frequents the farm had seen the young owl and fancied its chances. Meanwhile the owl was doing its best to defend itself. With wings out and head down it had made itself as imposing and threatening as it could and the cat was thankfully unsure about attacking it. Upon my arrival the cat bounded off and the owl flew a little way, still hampered by the gusty wind. I took off my jacket and approached in the hope that I could cover it and transfer it to the safety of the straw but my approach merely sent it over to the trees to the right of the farm. This was further from the safety of the dutch barn and I knew I had to leave it and simply hope it stayed safe.

I dreamt of owls that night and upon waking I headed straight down. There was no sign of the owl. No sign of it roosting behind the zinc yet no sorry pile of feathers to tell me its bravery had been its undoing. But the more I looked the more despondent I became. There were so many places for a young owl to hide and without its parents knowing its whereabouts it would be growing weaker and weaker. I checked over and under the trailers, between the bales and under the woodpile. I peered into the sheds between the cracks in the door and used my torch to scour the dark recesses of the open sheds. I investigated the crew yard with its high beams and stacks of wooden trays but it all seemed so futile. The more I searched the more places I imagined a scared and hungry owl might be. Those hollyhocks so magnificent against the farm house or the everlasting sweet peas under the apple tree were perfect cover and the huge expanse of uncut hay would hide the remains of an inexperienced young owl until the weather settled and work commenced again.

 Yet there was a glimmer of hope. I checked the trail camera I had left in the newly baled hay and felt a fluttering of optimism. At three in the morning a male owl with a ring clearly visible had checked the camera, and was photographed inquisitively peering at the screen. This trailer was directly below the owlets box and provided a stepping stone back up to a safe roost. If it had returned to the dutch barn it may well have found its way back to the nest box after all.

Sunday continued unseasonably windy and the kestrels left their nest box. They seemed to fare better than the owl and I watched in fascination as they challenged the wind that turned the barley field into a boiling broth of fury. At least three of them flew as if they were already experts and I marvelled at their dexterity. Just one stayed behind calling pitifully, clearly too timid to take the plunge. Having watched this family alongside the owls I worried for them too and willed the wind to calm.

When it did settle it was replaced with the owl's other enemy; rain. Midweek was the wettest spell in July that I can remember for many years with low cloud hanging over the wind turbines and rain so heavy that the barley collapsed with the sheer weight of water. I took a different route along the river and felt sick to the stomach as I approached  a buff coloured object in the hedge roots. I was berating myself for not checking this area for owlets before when I realised it was an old potato sack. My greatest fear was that whilst I would hate to find the owlet predated far worse would be to find it had perished from hunger and I hadn't located it in time.

I looked and listened with extra effort each evening, well aware by now of the habits of newly fledged owls and I was keen to see the youngster at feeding time. I listened carefully under the nest box but only the one remaining owlet hissed forlornly calling its parents for food. I stood in the darkness by the gate and watched. There was more activity by the shed and I began to hope the first fledgling had found its way in to this secure roost.

On Wednesday the rain was particularly persistent and I ran with the food in my winter coat and wellies. You can only imagine my relief and delight when I was greeted by an owl in the straw peering curiously at me. The adults would have flown but this one stayed put, continuing to stare and bob and weave, trying to make sense of this strange woman that appeared as if by magic each night. I rushed home to tell Rob with the weight and worry of the past week lifted.

On Thursday, its sister, the younger owlet, joined her brother in the big wide world. The rain had slowed to an annoying drizzle that soaked just as quickly as the heavy storms and as I approached the nest box there was a skittering sound as this second owlet took flight. It sounded as if it was wearing roller skates as it careered out of the box and into the grass field. I hastily left but not before the adult female arrived at the box and peered inside. Her  confusion was palpable when she found it vacated. I felt beyond sorry to see her so bereft after all her hard work yet she seemed to nonchalantly shrug off this series of events and take the food to the shed for herself.

Today summer has regained her composure and we have blue skies and a faint breeze.  I walked down with the trail camera to secure it in the shed but was stopped abruptly on the bridge. Unaware of my approach two owls were leaving the box and once again I recognised the behaviours to be those of youngsters. The first one stretched its wings while perched on the roof struts before alighting on the roof itself. The second peered warily round the box before jumping upon the nest box itself and staring all around. They were back! They had survived the weather and those first precarious flights and they had found their way back to the safety of the box where their parents would continue to sustain them as they grew in independence. I felt proud and relieved and emotional all at once. I have watched so many vulnerable youngsters that I should have trusted their resilience, their proficient nature and those finely honed instincts of theirs. My clever, capable owls.

Midsummer box check.

It was the most perfect midsummer day with the huge Fenland skies radiating a deep blue and the sun beating down hotter than the Savannah. I walked the dog early both for his sake and in anticipation of my morning visitor as Paddy was out this way and happy to check the owl boxes for me. He arrived soon after nine and after a socially distanced greeting we made our way separately down to the farm.I was sorry not to see Chalky, his usual accomplice. I knew that he would be disappointed too but this year things were, out of necessity, going to be handled very differently.

 

Earlier this year we anticipated that nest box checks would not be happening at all. When the lockdown first began and only the most vital jobs continued it became obvious that this sort of monitoring would be considered a luxury. For those who have carried out nest box checks for years, even decades it is disappointing to say the least to have a gap in the data but rules are rules. With the easing of restrictions checks have started again but not with the same capacity. Paddy was delivering a nest box in this area and kindly detoured to us.Many boxes across The Fens will be left this year.

 

 

We began in the shed where I was sure we had a failed brood. The shed smelt strongly of owls and we suspected it was still a roost site but the box confirmed my suspicions when we found a clutch of perfectly white eggs which were stone cold. We then headed across the grass field to the beehive box. I had seen some owlish activity over here in recent nights but the box revealed evidence of squirrels and was currently being used by stock doves. As we stood in this quiet corner of the farm a barn owl quartered low over the grass and continued along the dyke edge. It was the first I had seen hunting during daylight hours for weeks and we guessed that it had most probably been roosting in the shed and exited from the back when we entered. The kestrels watched the proceedings too, no doubt hopeful that there would be something in this visit for them. They had been watching the haymaking closely the previous day, ever opportunistic and always looking for an easy lunch.

 

 

We saved east nest box until last and I fervently hoped that there would still be live owlets to check.I had been walking down each evening with huge trepidation and although the previous evening I had continued to hear them hissing I was aware times were difficult. I watched with more than a little dread as Paddy was lifted skywards and the box was opened. 

It is the most wonderful moment when he peers inside the inspection hatch and then turns and nods. First out was a well feathered male, its eyes taking in the big wide world before it was gently placed in the dark bag for its journey down. There was another heart stopping moment when Paddy panned the torch around the box interior once more before reaching inside to reveal a second owlet, this one sporting more owlet fluff but also a good size.

 

 

These two precious bundles were brought to ground level and quietly and expertly handled. Once laid upon their backs they stayed relatively still and were measured, weighed and ringed. All the details were meticulously recorded on their very own form. Whilst checking these two little precious bundles, Paddy told me that during the checks that he had managed to carry out in Northamptonshire, very few sites were occupied. The slump in vole numbers which had been anticipated after last year's glut year had been exacerbated by the wet winter. He identified the oldest of ours as a male at about seven weeks old with the youngest one being a female possibly a week younger. As I took quick photos of these beautiful birds I knew that the future was bleak for them in such spartan times but I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind. They were alive at present and I would do my best by them whilst I could.

 

 

As he returned the youngsters to their nest box I asked Paddy to dispose of the carcass of the dead owlet at the front of the box. It was sad to see the tatty remains but there was some consolation in it for me. I could see that this one was younger than the tumbler I had returned a week previously. It had concerned me that perhaps it had been weakened by its night away from the nest site and had succumbed as soon as we had returned it. By looking at the photos I had taken that morning and the photos of the two owlets we had ringed it seemed that the tumbler had indeed been the oldest male that we had ringed that morning none the worse for its night out.

 

 

It was a morning of limited successes, of small congratulations and count your blessings. There was an acknowledgement that nature is formidable and we can play our part but much is out of our control. Yet still I smiled for much of the day at our little accomplishment from our modest corner of Fenland..