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.
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