New arrivals.

After the rain towards the end of April, May has arrived all in a rush. Cow parsley appeared apparently overnight to wave elegantly as I walked across the grass field.The trees came into leaf as the blossom burst forth and their branches bowed with such weight that the very tips reached down to meet the grass heads stretching upwards. Despite this being my eighth spring with the owls, this greenery felt a little oppressive. Perhaps it was the suddenness with which this abundance appeared but I suspect that the mood of my evening jaunt was made just a little eerie by the silence that now accompanies me. The lockdown means there are no cars. The only sound is the scream of a fox, the bark of a deer across the fields or the chiding of the little owl. This week, however, I am excited to report a different noise.

The barn owls are thankfully returning. To begin with I noticed just the slightest of an increase; an owl's flight against the sunset as I walked into the yard or the slightest movement in the periphery of my vision close to the house. It felt more like a whisper but a definite return to what I had become accustomed to. I watched two together on the shed and I was unsure whether their interactions were friendly or not, yet they seem to be tolerating each other. I observed another enter the shed although it didn't leave again whilst I watched which was reassuring. My biggest surprise was watching an owl alight on the feeding platform by the shed and then exit the farm and fly north. I thought fondly about the bird that visits every summer from this direction and hope it continues to call.

Surprisingly however, the highlight of my week came in the form of a creature that I know frequents the farm, yet one I rarely see. I was leaving the food mid week and panning the torch around low across the grass when I picked out two amber eyes. I held them with the torchlight and walked rapidly towards them. Twice they moved before returning their gaze upon me. The movement was rapid, too quick for a cat and although I was intrigued to find out exactly what I was watching I was also apprehensive. I was now way out across the grass field lured into the darkness by this unseen creature. Just as selkies lure sailors into danger I sensed this creature was tempting me out into the swaying sea of grass but still I continued. I got within a few yards of it and was enchanted to see a fox, its eyes fixed intently upon me, its little ears pricked, every sense alert. I dropped the torch and let it go. Despite being captivated I was a little uneasy. Had it been waiting for the food? I was unsure how foxes and owls would mix and I knew owlets would be vulnerable. I needn't have worried. I haven't seen it since and guess that it was simply as curious about me as I was about it.

But I have been saving the best until last. An increase in owls can only mean one thing; owlets. Three adults regularly meet me which I imagine means one female is still sitting and the pair that wait together in the walnut tree must have owlets to feed. I listen as best I can for that faint yet insistent hissing that tells me owlets are present. It is so faint initially, barely an utterance but I know that at around ten days they will begin with this heart warming sound. Those who know me will be aware that my hearing is atrocious. Not only can I simply not hear sounds in the lower range but the sounds I do hear often seem to be coming from elsewhere. Last night Sam indulged me and walked down with me. We stood together outside the shed but he shook his head. It was a different matter under east nest box. He pointed each time he heard the hissing and once it was pointed out to me I could hear it too. This made sense as this box was the first to have owlets in it last year and barn owl pairs tend to be faithful to nest sites. We must have looked ridiculous standing there pointing and laughing quietly to ourselves in the moonlight. I headed home smiling, pleased to think we would have owlets to watch out for once more.

So there it is, a little bit of good news in a world of uncertainty. It feels reassuring to know that in these unprecedented times nature is a constant.

Social distancing.

In these uncertain times, nature can be a constant. It is hugely reassuring to feel the sun strengthening, to see the swallows returning and to hear the glorious dawn chorus as it reaches zenith. And so it is with the owls, that in times of stress and at the end of a busy day I know they are there. Except at present, they aren't.

 It must be at least six weeks now since they showed properly for me. I catch sight of them here and there; a white wing across the shed, a solitary figure perched waiting, a faint movement from the beehives as I turn to leave. This current absence is of course good news for the owls as it means that food is plentiful. Conditions have also been perfect for owls to hunt in with the weather continuing settled, warm and dry for so long now. Full tummies make for secretive birds and they have little need of my offerings . Nonetheless if I wait close by after depositing the food I see them fly in. As I stand on the road watching, the male invariably flies back into the shed with food for his mate. One evening I see two alight onto the shed apex. Occasionally another leaves east nest box. Little clues give me sustenance and great comfort.

We have had just two spells of rain in the last month and on these occasions I have looked out for my owls especially keenly knowing they will struggle to hunt and show more quickly for my food. One evening as I walked the dog I sensed that rain was imminent. The air was alive with the promise of some relief for the now parched fields. It had been an especially hot day and after tea the clouds rolled ominously in.

As I set out with the food, despite the twilight, I could see that the sky to the north was black, whilst to the south, stars could still be seen across the buff, grey, patched horizon. I hurried along as my torch picked out the first large splatters of rain. If I was quick I knew the owls would get their tea in time so I hurried along, whistling against the building wind and panning the torch across the deserted farm yard. I am sorry to say that still none were waiting despite the weather, all except a little owl, perched precariously on a tiny swaying  branch his almost beetle like appearance at least gave me some solace that my walk was appreciated.

Before I ran back through the gate alarm the rain had begun in earnest, great splodges hit me hard as I faced the torrents and sprinted home. Half way to my front door everything lit up. My initial thought was that in the confusion I had shone my torch upwards but a split second later the menacing rumble of thunder told me that lightening was directly overhead. This encouraged me to put in an extra spurt yet still  I reached home wet and dishevelled.

I watched miserably as the rain hammered down scouring the area for any owls that had arrived. The lights of the yard illuminated the sheds and suddenly I caught the merest glimpse of a movement but it was only the weather vane, twisting horribly in the wind and catching the lights on its way. The rain continued relentlessly in swathes. Although I knew it was doing some good I wished it had come by daylight.

The following evening I was delighted to have my visitors waiting once more. They had gone hungry the previous night and were not too proud to sit and wait. My usual male surveyed the others with a look of disdain from the highest pinnacle in the ash tree whilst two others sat a little apart in the walnut tree. As I stand and peruse the scene I am thrilled to see another two arriving across the fields. Perhaps the females left their nest sites for just a fleeting moment to take the food or perhaps younger birds flew in knowing where to fill their tummies. I don't care who they were I am just delighted and reassured that they are still all local.

Since that night my evening visitors have resumed their policy of social distancing and are nowhere to be seen. I check timings in my owl book and apply some rudimentary calculations. Eggs laid two to three days apart and then brooded for thirty two days. Five eggs could mean forty seven days if she sits until the final egg hatches.After this mum broods the barely feathered owlets for a further three weeks totalling sixty eight days. On these calculations I anticipate the hissing of young owlets in a week or two. I can barely wait

Compensations.

I am writing this sitting in the conservatory as the sun sets across the fens, Orange melds to yellow and then white before fading into an ever darkening indigo. Venus surveys this magnificence from high in the sky and to the east the pink supermoon rises grandly, defying gravity in its ascent. After a cold, stingy spell of weather spring has arrived all in a rush.

Of course the owls began to prepare for spring's arrival soon after Christmas with their territorial posturing and some magnificent shrieking. It is a good five weeks now since the females disappeared into nest boxes and sightings of the owls have been at a premium. I mostly see two birds as I walk to feed them, that sit rather frostily apart but tolerate each other for the sake of the food. Just once in these lean times did I see five birds. We had a bitingly cold wind from the east ten days ago making it as inclement as any winter's day across the flatlands. I cannot say where they came from but suddenly I was surrounded by owls and thrilled to have my fly past once more. As the weather eased so the owls disappeared once more. I find myself alone, walking and whistling but ever patient that they will return.

But there are compensations. The bats are out of hibernation and playing their tricks on me. They favour the path to the north of the sheds, the one I use to walk into the farm. These Red Arrows of the natural world fly so low and so close I am certain that we will collide with me but they are simply teasing. I love to watch their agile silhouettes against the sunset despite my nervousness.

There is another creature fresh from hibernation too. Close to the house and almost underfoot I happened upon a hedgehog by the first owl feeding station. It curled up against the torchlight as I scolded it for snuffling around in this particular area. Nonetheless it was a delight to watch as it scurried away and I have watched out for it ever since.

Finally the swallows are making their first tentative explorations of the area after their mammoth migrations. I saw my first this year battling its way along the river on the 5th of April. They love the grass field as it harbours a multitude of insects for them to feast upon. The owls will not be pleased to see them mind. When they are forced out in daylight hours the swallows chase and harass them, scolding loudly as they follow close to the owl's tail. Although I feel for the owls I love the swallow's sunny disposition.

I may not have a plenitude of owlish visitors but the moon has been so magnificent this week that I had to attempt an owl and moon composition. There were just the usual male birds, giving a possible two chances. The first flew in and I snapped furiously away. The moon continued to rise and to align it closely to the platform I found myself scrooched low in the potato patch with my neck at the most peculiar angle in order to look through the cameras viewfinder. It was all in vain as the second bird sat staring at me incredulously wondering what on earth I was up to now. I know this bird waits until I leave and so I gave up. As I stood I realised I had a hawthorn, barb lodged firmly in my shin. To add insult to injury (literally) my photos were too dark to see the owl at all.

But last night there was a hint of an end to my owlish famine. As I walked into the farm, studiously avoiding the bats and watching out for hedgehogs, an owl flew low, keen and close to the farm border. Most excitingly, it flew upwards into the ash tree and sat next to the regular male that waits here. I felt almost certain it was one of the females out of the nest and waiting for food. There was a familiarity between the two bird, a companionable air that is hard to define but I am confident they were a pair. I am hoping that this means her eggs have hatched, that her brood has been successful this far and that once again there will be owlets on the farm. Compensation indeed.

Secrets.

From my utility window I see them. The first owl butterflying upwards in the farm yard lights. It almost glows as it twists and its brilliant underside catches the light. A second is following flying lower and more direct. I lean on the worktop and watch. The second bird alights on the shed roof apex. I can imagine its face, those intent eyes, that indignant expression cocooned in a heart shaped ruff, the turn of the head and its upright stance. They are back.

I know that I will not be privileged to watch them in the numbers that waited for me during January. Those times will reoccur but for now I am content to see two or three each evening. As I walk and whistle one reassuringly flies above me and continues ahead of me to wait in the trees by the house. I am not sure why it is so incredibly satisfying to have this happen each evening but there is something in the consistency of its behaviour that sits well with me. Tonight there were three waiting tolerantly together for the food they know I will bring. I talk to them, pan the torch low and walk rapidly away. They have their secrets to keep.

I know, from previous years owl watching that the females are at the nest boxes. I have seen our very light male return with food to the shed. One evening recently I asked Rob to escort me. Our farm had seen hare coursers and  I wanted back up. When the owls heard his deep voice two absconded from east nest box. This pair sit tight for me but that evening their secret was laid bare. Intriguingly, I often see three owls and another one waits at west nest box. Do we still have autumn owlets visiting if not who can these other birds be if our females are now sitting on eggs?

Sam is now home and walked down with me on his first evening back. We waited on a straw bale with grand views of the shed and east nest box to see if we could glean any more information. Immediately one flew to the rafters, a fine vantage point, before choosing its food. Within seconds it had seen us. Despite the gloom we both knew it was glaring at us, unflinching and furious at our very presence. We sat motionless, not daring to move, every muscle taut, breathing low and steady, both waiting for that screech which would penetrate to our very core. For some reason it didn't come but that indignant stare continued.

Suddenly from the east two owls flew in. The first was obviously the shed male as it expertly darted in the gap at the top of the door. Its pursuer flew into the dutch barn and unintentionally directly above us, shrieking and whirring as it went. Whether it saw us or whether its rage was directed at the first owl I am unsure. Although I have rarely felt threatened by the owls this encounter was as nerve wracking as they come. We knew we would gain little more by staying and headed home.

They continue to wait, two, three, sometimes four of them, still they guard their secrets well. But watching closely means I am a little concerned about the hostility between the two pairs. During 2018 the owls that shared the farm showed a familiarity with each other that was remarkable and there was little territorial posturing. We then lost our original male bird from 2014 and the younger male took on both females for the summer of 2019. When his first mate died it left us only one pair yet by autumn we had two broods of owlets. It became evident that  a totally new pair had moved in. As we move ever closer to young owls once more I am watching avidly yet anxiously that all remains well.

Absence.

It is a full two weeks since I wrote my last blog. That week is thankfully beginning to fade from my memory but I am still travelling out grimacing at every discarded wrapper and craning my neck to identify anything crumpled in nearby fields. As the weather has settled the fatalities have lessened although I was sorry to see yet another road casualty along the A47 today. A dyke running perpendicular to such a busy road meant certain death for this owl that had quite obviously chosen to hunt its grassy banks.

The calming weather has lifted my mood but the owls are not bestowing upon me those fabulous winter fly pasts. We know some of my visitors have been lost to the terrible conditions and the remaining youngsters are now out there somewhere having to fend for themselves but this scenario is not all about despondency. Empty skies at dusk mean the owls can finally hunt for themselves. They will always revert to this if they can and I am heartened to see that times are once more a little easier for them. However the most obvious and very exciting reason for an absence of owls is that the females are now in the nest boxes. If they aren't sitting on eggs they are spending time establishing bonds with their mate. Not only are the females no longer flying but the males have become extra secretive. More than once I have walked into what seems to be a deserted farm yard only to hear a strangled screech from the shed eaves or a nearby tree. They will not compromise their mate's safety by returning to her whilst I am close. Their loyalty is humbling. Tonight two were sparring as I entered the farm. One waited by the house and the other left east nest box porch. I watched from the road side. The one from near the house returned to the combine shed, deftly diving through the door gap with a chick in its talons. This is early for barn owls but hardly surprising. Our owls laid their first egg in 2018 on the 4th march as the "Beast from the East" gave us its worst. This morning my neighbour sent a video of her owls mating. The signs are all there.

 I thought back to last year. We began the year with the adult male taking on both of our female birds and making really hard work for himself before tragedy struck and his original mate was found dead along the riverbank. By autumn we had two pairs on the farm again but this rivalry has been noted before. It would seem there is an uneasy truce between the two pairs who only tolerate each other because of the abundance of nest sites and the extra food. I anticipate a brood in the shed and in east nest box as we did last autumn. You saw it here first.

If my barn owls are staying out of sight the other raptors on the farm are making sure I am not too bereft. The kestrels greet me each morning. Sometimes there are two males and I wonder if they are my youngsters from last summer. On other occasions a male and female sit closely together on the ploughing watching me intently. These birds are easily spotted, a chestnut figurine atop of  the chocolate curled clay. They wait until I leave the field before flying deftly in and taking a chick. Midweek I returned from the field and disturbed one of the males. It flew to the second shed and tiny bits of day old chick down drifted to the ground. That afternoon as I rounded the shed a kestrel appeared from west nest box, popping out of the door like a cuckoo from a clock. It was still quite breezy and he chose to stay, poised and alert, never taking his eyes from me until I was a good distance away.

There are also the little owls who wait in the trees. You can easily mistake them for a branch as they sit motionless close to the tree trunk but if I walk closer I can see them, their indignant expression and disproportionate eyebrows. They seem to puff themselves up as if making up for their tiny stature. Their straw roost is still intact but I often catch them dart into the nest box we made for them at the end of the shed. One of them waits here for me each evening, standing to attention, a little sentinel on  guard through the night.

I miss my fly pasts, my avian acknowledgement, but I am now accustomed to their movements and their annual habits. I will continue to feed and continue to watch as avidly as ever for clues and signs that all is well.

The saddest week.

This week has seen the harshest of times and this blog is undoubtedly the hardest that I have had to write. But life cannot be all sweetness and light and in my dealings with the owls I have to face those difficult moments alongside the amazing highs that I so avidly share with you. The saddest of weeks has however, been punctuated with moments of beauty. As the sun appears fleetingly and seemingly more beautiful between the heaviest of rain clouds these moments have reminded why I continue to do what I do.

                                                                     Golden hour

The weather has continued to conspire against the owls and reports of birds starving are widespread. Their hunger drives them into ever more precarious situations, hunting by day and close to roads. It was with a heavy heart that I saw the owl I had watched close to a nearby bridge now crumpled on the grass verge. It was impossible to stop with traffic everywhere but we agreed to look on our return journey. By then, despite scouring the area and nearby fields the owl had vanished. How I wished I had turned back initially. I had felt sure this owl was one of our youngsters but now I couldn't check for a ring. I convinced myself that perhaps it wasn't dead that it had been mantling over prey but my husband is not in the habit of humouring me. He assured me it was dead and that another well intentioned person had recovered the body. If it was one of ours I know the information will reach me through Paddy. How sorry I was to think I would not see its beautiful buff form quartering as I drove that way.

Sunday continued in a similar vein with gusty winds that nearly took my legs from under me as I walked the dog. At dusk Nature took pity upon the owls and the wind calmed. All at once owls appeared as if summoned by some unknown piper. We drove out as one of our males flew alongside the car. Thrilled to the pit of my stomach my delight continued as we headed across the fens. Within five miles we had seen as many owls, all quartering, composed and intent. To watch their languid flight you would not imagine the turmoil that they have endured in these infernal conditions.

                                                 This grey bird flew alongside us.

These sightings carried me through the start of the week but on Tuesday I returned from work to find a sad bundle waiting for me. It was the frailest little body I have ever seen yet absolutely perfect without a feather out of place. It had simply faded away. The ring told me that it wasn't one of ours but belonged to a nest site down the road. The owl in its weakness must have found our open sheds where it was discovered too late. I shed a tear over its perfect form and wished it had realised that there was food within metres of its final roost. I had seen an owl in these sheds on Saturday. I often see them in here so hadn't thought to check but how I wish I had looked now. Sadly recriminations and retrospection are little use to it now.

                                                                         Perfect

There was however, metaphorical sunshine on Wednesday when I was called upon to help with the location for a barn owl release. This one had argued with a van in a nearby village and been rescued by a local lady. The man responsible for its rehabilitation met me and together we chose a good spot. Once it realised that it was free it flew beautifully silhouetted against the sun. As we stood discussing the year gone by and our individual owlish endeavours we watched two owls quartering the dykes and ditches. Had the released bird so confidently found its wings already?

                                                         Great focus on the box front!

I drove that way over the next couple of days with the intention of looking out for this owl and making sure as best I could that it wasn't in trouble. As I drove past the spot where it had been involved in the van collision I whispered a curse as I saw the all too familiar form of a crushed owl on the roadside. Surely it couldn't be? I abandoned the car and ran avoiding the lorries that sped past yet feeling the tug from them and imagining that force on the slight form of a barn owl. On reaching the pathetic pile of feathers I was relieved that it was unringed as our released bird was sporting a fresh silver ring with its own individual number. Nonetheless it was beyond sad to feel its fragile little body, too thin, pushed beyond its limits and I contemplated that perhaps the collision it had encountered was preferable to the slow agonising death that starvation must bring.

                                                                      GY00516


I didn't have time to dwell on this sad find. There was one more that for me that would prove far more poignant. For some reason my dog walk took me upon a different route and back to the yard along the riverbank. I caught sight of something owl coloured along the bank and casually raised my binoculars. I so often pick out old pieces of hessian or cardboard that I wasn't expecting to see an owl and gasped with shock as the heart shaped face and flayed wings came sharply into focus. I knew from this distance it would be one of ours and set off to with the grisly job of identifying exactly which one it was. GY00516 was the third oldest fledgling from the combine shed. In my distress I moved the body and quickly took photos before covering it with reeds and leaving it. But something didn't seem quite right. A seemingly single wound to the upper wing and subsequent blood loss was a strange injury. I wondered about predation yet other than this wound the bird was flawless. It's condition told me it had died that day and we had seen an owl sitting on the hedge that very morning. I should have seen that its close proximity was a sign that all wasn't well. Summoning up all my resilience I closed my heart to my usual sentimentality and rang the bird of prey monitoring scheme. I returned that evening and collected it. This body will be analysed and I hope to have some answers. It is the very least I can do for one of our own.

                                                                   Happier times.

I couldn't imagine this time just a week ago that I would have so many little tragedies to record and I sincerely hope that I never have to experience another week such as this. But it has shown me that I am not alone in the emotions that these magnificent creatures evoke. My sad tales have been met with sympathy and kind words wherever my story has been shared and those around me have shown a genuine concern as the sorry, lifeless bodies have been recovered and pored over. The owl release that lifted me mid week was carried out with a surge of genuine happiness from all involved and here too I recognised the strength of emotion that arises around these sentient beings. I will hold closely these moments of gentle compassion as a soothing reminder that there are good times ahead.

Winter's end

February is a hard month. Despite a relatively unremarkable season this year, winter continues relentlessly and although it is nearing its end, as I haul on thick socks and boots, wind a scarf round and round and hunt for my hat I long for the summer evenings. It seems almost a lifetime ago when I sauntered down to the owls in shorts and t shirt. I need some sunshine.

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.