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.

Wolf Moon

I didn't see it initially. As I plodded around the muddy field margins my interest had been taken with a female barn owl quartering the dyke side ahead of us. But with a mug of tea in one hand, a Labrador to contain with the other and a camera with settings to adjust she saw me first and headed in the opposite direction.The farm owls are fortunate to have numerous paths to hunt upon and can outmanoeuvre me every time.

It was the Wolf Moon that I had missed as it began its shy ascent appearing on the north eastern horizon. I forgot about my owl and hastily paced the field perimeter knowing if I was in position in time I would get a photo of it looming majestically over my favourite trees. The rapidity of its ascent and the change in colour that accompanied it was astounding. It morphed from white through yellow to a burnt orange in minutes before resuming a brilliant white that lit up the winter skyscape and made a torch at owl feeding time quite superfluous.

After a few nights of suspicious activity at the farm Rob accompanied me and we sat under the Horse Chestnut tree to watch as the visiting owls took turns to fly in for their tea. One after the other they arrived with effortless elegance and barely a glance in our direction. The straw stack was also awash with owls and we sat upon a bale to watch the younger birds alight on the platform to choose the tastiest of morsels. After two rainy evenings the still, clear conditions were perfect both for ourselves and the owls.

I was heading over to Peterborough and knew it was an evening for owl spotting. I didn't have to scour the fields for long. Before I had driven one hundred metres into the Lincolnshire fens I glanced my first owl. It crossed the traffic on the top bank road and flew into my waiting headlights. I recognised this bird. It was the incredibly grey barn owl that we have seen hunting along the road sides here in the past month. I am unsure of its roost but it will undoubtedly be one of our youngsters. Although the farm makes for a perfect roost site the autumn fledgling's instinct will already be telling them to literally spread their wings and leave for territories of their own. We often see them still within a short distance of the farm and it is both terrifying and wonderful to watch.

This particular bird seemed undaunted by the cars. My dilemma was whether to keep my headlights on full beam. Would this blind the owl or would they light it up and warn other vehicles of its presence? I tentatively edged out onto the main road and drove at a snail's pace with the owl quartering beside me. It held itself steady, wings at a horizontal and head down as it stayed intent upon its hunt. As I met car after car in the next few minutes I willed the young owl to stay safe in its foray for food.

Within a couple of miles I happened upon my next owl; another familiar bird. This one was hunting from a post across Thorney fen on the northernmost border of Cambridgeshire. As an experienced bird it was wisely conserving its energy by waiting for prey on this favoured post. It could almost have been another species to the one I had seen just minutes previously. Its deep amber feathers were flecked with grey and I was reminded of the time last April I stopped along here. I had seen an owl on the dyke edge in the pouring rain one lunchtime. I scaled the water and got within a metre of it before it flew quite capably through the tussocky grass. My initial concerns that it was injured or starving had been allayed and I kept watch instead from a respectful distance. What I remember most from this encounter was the singular beauty of this owl's feathers. With the rain jewelled across its back it had the beauty of a peacock as the vibrant rust accentuated the grey flecked tips of each feather. This encounter gained extra significance when I found out that this territory belonged to one of our 2016 owlets that was recaptured in July last year. As I watched her staring and engrossed on the weather beaten grass it seemed amazing to think that perhaps I had once held her and been part of the process of detailing those all important details, that I had watched her fledge across the farm, perhaps viewed her with that now familiar anxiety as she too made her way into the wider world.

                                                             2016 youngsters

My final sighting was close to Eye. An owl flew just within the periphery of my vision, a flurry of white beating upwards and away from its tree perch, a flamenco turn dressed in haughty disregard. In 2014 I had the pleasure of being part of something very special here too. Teaching at this village school I undertook a project about barn owls and we were given an owl box. 2014 was a bumper year for barn owls. We erected the box in March and it was occupied in May. I had read the now classic "Owl Babies" to sixty four year olds in the shade of the trees only to find out we had our very own owl babies roosting quietly above us. I arranged to have them ringed and we found three bundles of fluff as in the story. Some of the very youngest children came with me to hold the owlets.I still remember the assembly where we shared the photos with the whole school. Silent awe and wonder filled the hall. It was undoubtedly one of the highlights in thirty years of teaching. Watching this owl so close to the school made me wonder if it was one of this brood's predecessors. How lovely to think I may have made an impact in this part of the fens despite the sprawl of Peterborough relentlessly encroaching upon the area.

The moon continued to cast her glow,  painting the fields and the ditches and the hedgerows with its silvery light. When I returned along the same route after a couple of hours the owls had gone. Undoubtedly they had caught their supper and returned to their roosts until hunger forced them out again. It filled with me optimism for the forthcoming year to watch these elegant raptors, to see their assured quartering, to know they were there.

Triumphs and tragedies.

 How can it possibly be 2020 already? I love the new year with its air of new possibilities and promise but I also enjoy reflecting on the year just past. As I recall events over the last twelve months I can barely believe that such a lot has happened with the owls in this short space of time.

Out of all the years that I have been involved with our barn owls, 2019 has seen the most tragedies. We began the year knowing we had lost one of our adult males and I wondered if the remaining female would find a mate. It seemed amazing to watch as the resident male took her on as a second wife which made hard work for him in the earlier part of the year as he helped to raise two broods. My delight at this arrangement was short lived when we found his original mate dead along the riverbank.as her first brood fledged. It seemed that we were indeed down to one pair for the first time since 2014 and I spent a morose summer imagining a winter farm yard  bereft of owls. I had very few sightings during high summer and missed my visitors enormously.

We had other casualties too. The female youngster I found starving in the dyke in April seemed fortunate to have the care and attention she needed from our local rescue centre but my delight at her release quickly turned to horror as I found her drowned in the river. She simply wasn't strong enough and I felt implicit in her death. Similarly my delight at rescuing a tumbler from the autumn brood in the shed, hidden in the woodpile, led to sadness when I found one from this same brood dead in the shed and another predated in the field. These two unringed youngsters were very unlikely to have survived so late in the season but having watched them and willed them so hard to adulthood I took both of these losses hard too. Our final casualty was one of Debbie's fledglings that was hit by a car along the road between our houses. I had been present when this brood were ringed and was so very sorry that an otherwise healthy owl had to be euthanized. It is at times like this that I doubt my involvement with these beautiful birds. My own resilience is tested and I feel each loss far too keenly.

But it has not all been doom and gloom. 2019 proved to be a bumper year for voles which in turn led to a glut of owlets. We were due a good vole year and it was extremely welcome as I was certain that sightings of barn owls across fenland were down since the last good year of 2014. We had two broods of two owlets early on in the year, so early that the adults couldn't take advantage of the forthcoming glut of food. In autumn the owls produced two broods of five despite the loss of the original female who, amazingly, was replaced by a third bird. Whether our Casanova resident male was daddy to both broods is debatable. I am beginning to realise that I may not be as assured as to who is living on the farm as I think I am.

It was also a year for some firsts for me. Although the cycle of events continued along a pleasingly familiar pattern I saw things this year that I couldn't have anticipated. I watched in terror as the male bird was tackled by a buzzard for its prey. He flew back to his roost site that day and stayed there. I also watched in amazement as the owls tired of the kestrels and ousted their youngsters from the nest box a week before they were ready to fledge. I learned a great deal about this delightful little falcon as I kept a close eye on them over the next few weeks and still feel a pang of pleasure as I watch kestrels hunting across the fields. As the autumn progressed I observed the second brood owlets with pleasure as they roosted together. We installed a fourth feeding station directly outside their shed to alleviate any hostility but as yet they seem very contented with each other. I also could not have anticipated catching a flying owl and still smile to myself at the thought of that event. One of the youngsters was out by day, confused and hungry.I can still vividly remember it launching itself towards me and instinctively grabbing it as it flew past. I was determined to return it to safety but had some nasty wounds on my hands as thanks.

The year has ended on a high as I am greeted by a farm full of owls. I could not have anticipated such a greeting in the owl famine that was summer 2019. The youngsters still hiss upon my arrival. The adults wait patiently staring hard at me with those large obsidian eyes full of trust. Just last night I stopped over by the house and looked around me. I was completely surrounded by them as they sat waiting expectantly in the trees. The closest was perhaps only ten metres away, two youngsters sat together in the furthest trees whilst the shyer birds sat partially hidden by the walnut tree branches. I cannot tell what 2020 has in store for us but I do know that I will continue to play my part in the dramas until circumstances force my hand. Happy New Year to you all.

Turning

I love the stillness that surrounds the winter solstice. It seems as if, as the earth turns on her axis there is a momentary stillness as she holds her breath. With the Christmas season upon us too, the little traffic we see this way ceases and there is an unearthly quiet to my owlish endeavours. It feels as if midwinter has signalled to all that this is a time to hunker down, to rest and to reflect.

Yet, within less than a week of the shortest day I am seeing a difference in the owls' behaviours. The youngsters are now flying confidently over to the house with me. Just a couple remain in the shed, hissing impudently at me as I approach. One waits in the open sheds, sheltered and safe until I arrive.Two others have taken to west nest box on the dutch barn and fly to the trees hissing as they go. It is a privilege to watch them as they gain their independence.

I am always delighted to share my evening walk and last Monday I had visitors to watch. It fills me with apprehension having written so enthusiastically about my wonderful fly pasts and as my guests stood on the bridge the farm appeared just like any other, still and lifeless. However when I began to whistle my familiar call they appeared, beautifully white and flew gracefully through the farm lights over to the house where they knew we would walk first. Arriving on the lawn they were assembled, perched in trees and circling close by keen for the food to be shared. I held back for a few minutes knowing they would stay and we could watch for a while. As the minutes passed more arrived until we counted six owls in total across the grassy expanse. Four flew in for tea as we stood watching. I always leave once the bravest have fed knowing that my faithful female will wait until I am out of sight and if I over stay my welcome she may go hungry.

Over by the shed and the dutch barn I left my guests to watch from the straw stack and made my way out of the farm as usual. Sure enough, owls returned to this corner of the farm too. More youngsters left the shed in a flurry of excitement and an older bird flew within metres to take food from the dutch barn platform. It was a spectacular viewing. I almost felt as if the owls had conspired with me, knowing I wanted to show them at their best and so they duly obliged.

The only thing my owl enthusiasts didn't see was the owls fly alongside me as I walk to the yard. One graced me with its presence on Christmas Eve, flying upward from a fence post and then measuring its flight with my stride so it continued alongside me the whole way down the road. I know it is hunger that prompts such actions but it makes me immeasurably happy to watch this.

You would imagine that seeing these beauties each evening makes a snatched sighting as I drive home less exciting but the opposite is true. Somehow it adds to the experience. On my way to work I spotted an owl close to the bridge that acts as a county border less than a mile from us. It was sitting quite nonplussed on a dyke side watching the traffic. Two evenings later I saw an owl in the same vicinity hunting from a post. The car headlights captured it beautifully and its upright stance and intent stare are appliqued on my heart. At such a short distance away this could well be one of our autumn fledglings making its first forays out into the world.

Closer to Thorney, I was delighted to see the very dark female owl hunting along her favourite dyke. Paddy recaptured one of our 2016 fledglings here this summer. It was where I tried to help a sodden owl during a downpour in April and where I had taken chicks during a wet spell in June. I watched her circle warily away from the traffic. With her especially grey flecked feathers she was spectacular.

My final Christmas owl encounter was a sad one. I am always watching out for road casualties and usually I find myself staring intently at a McDonald's wrapper but along the A16 I was saddened to see an owl close to the Cowbit roundabout. It looked to have been hit and struggled to the grass verge to die and I was sorry I had not passed that way earlier, in time perhaps, to help it.

Somehow getting involved with my owls makes these encounters across the fens even more significant. I know in the new year as the days lengthen and activity increases I will see  many more both memorable and heartfelt. I will be ready for them.

Learning something new.

I do not need to tell you how much I enjoy my evening jaunt down to feed the owls. Even mid week when I went out for a meal, I spruced myself up including make up and heels, then I exchanged the heels for wellies so I could drop the food off on my way out.

Part of the satisfaction comes from seeing those familiar patterns unfolding again and again. As the summer came to an end I was doubtful that I would have my fantastic winter fly pasts but here I am once more, encountering some of the most fabulous spectacles I have ever witnessed. It is immensely satisfying to walk down the road whistling and see the owls responding, flying upwards through the shed lights and turning effortlessly as they make their way over to the house to wait for me. As usual the outsider is sitting expectantly. It has found a safe place deep within the walnut tree branches and flies in first hoping for a quick getaway but midweek was chased by two of our adults. I watched by the light of the full moon as they flew low across the sodden fields. I do wish they were more tolerant. This is one familiar pattern I wish I didn't experience.

Similarly I am blessed to have the youngsters staying for the winter. Usually the adults would have sent them on their way by now but the routine here is that the autumn broods get to stay much longer. The extra food means they are allowed their safe roost and sustenance during the harshest of seasons. I have seen this again and again. It is one of the benefits of supplementary feeding and gives me an especial pleasure in knowing I am helping them in this way.

However, each year, each season, also teaches me something new. This year I have learned that the youngsters from two broods will mix together quite readily and I have witnessed the older ones feeding the younger ones and encouraging them out to find food for themselves. I have also been captivated to watch them roosting together in the barn, cuddled together on the beam. My morning photo has been a particular highlight as I count five or six birds most mornings so you can imagine my consternation when, after a few days without looking my photo revealed not a single bird and this has continued throughout the week.

My worries regarding the lack of roosting owls have been unfounded. At feeding time they tumble from the shed almost falling over each other in their haste. I regularly count four leaving whilst others fly close and wait on the dutch barn roof for their siblings to appear. I can only assume that they are roosting in the nest box now the weather is so cold.  Once more I have learned something new.

There is a new behaviour that has perplexed me but this week I am beginning to make sense of this too. Some nights the youngsters appear immediately from the shed whilst other night they stay inside hissing insistently for a good ten minutes. This behaviour doesn't seem linked to hunger or weather conditions. I think back to the night they all appeared whilst I stood close to get my photo. Indeed tonight they came out as I stood by the straw and watched me walk by as inconspicuously as possible. Suddenly I realise the link. They do not appear until they hear another bird outside. I assume they see this as their cue that all is safe and it is indeed a clever survival strategy. I think back to the time they heard the outsider land on their food platform. Unaware that it was an unfamiliar bird that was flying low and keen directly over my head they tumbled out assuming the coast was clear.

The year is nearly at a close. I wonder how many familiar patterns I will continue to have the pleasure to watch and whether I will learn anything new from my feathered friends in those final few days.

Changes changes.

  In the middle of the fens we have had rain since mid September. Relentless showers, downpours that last for days, mornings that promise dry weather but invariably revert to the damp status quo that has become Autumn 2019. It is terrible weather for owls and I predict empty nest sites next spring where there should have been an abundance of young owls to fill every one.

My fortunate youngsters continue to thrive although I walk the fields with trepidation after finding one of the youngsters dead a month back. Only this morning I approached a piece of white plastic with dread, grabbing the dog and edging closer before relief flooded over me. When you watch the youngsters with such pleasure you also imagine their sad demise wherever you go.

I have, almost by accident, found a novel way of checking on them. After peeping through the circular door handle on the shed I realised that if I pointed my phone through I could get a photo without disturbing them and make sure they were present and correct. Sometimes four, often five and occasionally six birds could be seen perched close together on the furthest beam. Often they were alternating facing forwards backwards in a sequenced pattern. I wonder if this was for warmth. It certainly warmed my heart to see them sitting so companionably close.

Each evening follows a predictable pattern. As soon as I whistle I see owls lift upwards through the farm lights and head towards the house. I assume they are adults but last night one struggled against the wind and landed in the field. It was classic adolescent owl behaviour. Someone couldn't wait for their tea. Now the leaves have fallen I can clearly see them waiting in the surrounding trees. The fly in immediately deftly snatching the chicks and heading away. I watched with pity as an especially brave bird took its tea only to be chased by two others. Feeding over here allows them the space they will need as the youngsters think about dispersing and I will increase the amount over time.

Once I reach the shed the hissing reaches a crescendo. I feel a little nervous as I leave the food, half expecting a hungry owl to appear above me but they wait for my cues. I feed at the dutch barn , often picking out a kestrel or little owl and then walk away but not before I flash the torchlight into the shed. Four or five waiting owlets can be seen on the beam. They will not appear until I leave. However once I have quietened and reached the roadside out they spill, perching expertly on the door ledge now and peering out into the night. They fly down immediately and there is a clash of wings as they choose their tea and head off around the shed. As the autumn continues it becomes ever more difficult to tell the youngsters from the adults.

On the days that I work my morning dog walk coincides with dawn and I have been delighted to see the owls flying as I enter the farm. One morning three were exploring the yard together and fly back into the shed on my approach. Another time two were hunting the dyke side ahead of me and I watch with satisfaction as one broadly circles back to the shed roost with an ease and surety that fills me with confidence about its capabilities. A third encounter sees one leave the straw silhouetted against a coral sky. The kestrel sets out in pursuit but it no longer has the advantage and the owl twists and turns almost languidly against the smaller aggressor. They do not always go to roost. I notice one perched on my beehives staring intently at me as I return. I avoid its gaze and stay well away. There maybe food later in the evening but in order to hunt successfully they must be left alone to focus on this important task.

As the weather settles I become aware that they are less reliant upon my food. They are becoming more capable hunters and the weather is allowing them to hone their skills. In turn I slowly reduce my offering leaving enough for them to survive and continue to live peacefully alongside each other whilst encouraging them to follow their natural instincts. It is a fine balance.

I won't have too many more evenings where I am greeted by such a host of owls. This morning I pointed the camera through the door to check my owlets and the beam was empty. Whether I am ready or not there are signs that changes are afoot. Tonight they were waiting still as raucous as ever. I will enjoy their company whilst I still can.

Bittersweet times.

It is the most bittersweet of times. The owlets are fledging, growing braver by the day. Having watched how hard their mother has worked to rear them this far and how resilient these youngsters have proved to be in the worst autumn weather I can remember, I feel proud, and scared, joyful and tentative all at once.

At least one leaves the safety of the farmyard each afternoon to try its luck hunting along the dyke sides to the south of the farm. I see it most days, flying in short bursts and staring indignantly into the grass as if its mere presence will scare the voles into submission. When it finds this tactic doesn't work it stares wilfully across at me as if asking me to halt the incessant rain. If only I could.

At the weekend I was concerned that the hissing from the first brood, that had made a cosy teenage roost in west nest box, had ceased. I was sorry to think they might have left the farm but knew this was eventually an inevitability. However the hissing from the shed was incredible. Peeping inside each morning reassured me that there were four or five birds roosting on the roof struts inside. I knew there would be more within the nest box. It appeared that all of the owlets had joined forces and were making use of the warm shed as the weather closed in. It also made feeding them easier as the parents were called to this shed rather than following owlets hissing from all directions. I watched on Monday as mum alighted on the shed door and was immediately ambushed by two youngsters. Has she not taught them any manners?

Each evening brought something new as they grew in confidence. They quickly learned to leave the shed to help themselves to food as soon as they imagined I had left. On Tuesday two deftly flew down and carried off food to the safety of the straw stack, a third chose to take one down onto the ground and was harangued by a hungry sibling who hadn't worked out where to get the food from. A fifth bird chose a different tactic and hovered in a territorial manner over the two on the ground in the hope of scaring them away and securing the food for itself. The night was still and, for once quite dry. I knew it would be a good night for them to explore their surroundings further.

As soon as I entered the farm the following morning I felt uneasy. The dog sensed something different and sniffed frantically, barking at the straw stack yet the source of his angst was no longer present. I found feathers, five maybe six and knew this could just have been a skirmish amongst the youngsters. I also knew I would need to scour the fields on my walk. The longer I pounded the fields the more confident I became that nothing was amiss. I was heading back towards the grass field when I spotted it. An owl, wings splayed, head back, undoubtedly dead but only recently killed. Bloody wounds to its wing joint and neck told me it likely assailant would have been a fox and I did notice a footprint in the soft clay before Max bounded over to destroy any evidence.

There was no ring which meant it was either the second of the young owlets from the shed that was too small to ring in September or one of our adult females that I know is also unringed. Examining the wing feathers showed the bird was a fully fledged female and the pattern, which is unique to each bird, was unfamiliar to me. There was an outside chance that it was a bird from another farm but my instinct told me it was indeed one of our youngsters. I remembered how triumphant I had been to save one of these youngsters from the woodpile. How I had listened to them night after night. How I had watched them only the night before cavorting almost comically across the yard.It had been short lived revelry for this individual. I hoped its death had at least been quick. Carrying it over to our land I realised what a rather pathetic figure I made stooped over this sad pile of feathers. It always seems wrong to bury a bird like this that flies so majestically but I decided to dispose of the body rather than draw attention from other predators.

That evening I knew I had to wait and watch to see if I could ascertain if anyone was missing. Most importantly to try to see if an adult was absent. I left the food and waited a good way off by the farm gate. As if to compound my misery not one bird appeared. I stood  still willing something to happen. It was only when the intruder flew over my head and briefly landed on the platform, before flying back out to the north that the owlets came to life. I thought this bird had been silent in its approach but they heard him and spilled out of the shed each one tumbling after the other. They hissed and mantled over the food seemingly as furious as the adults are that another should dare take their food. It was notable that they all headed for the straw and I wondered what they may have witnessed the night before.

I cannot dwell on the saddest moments of what I do. When we lose a bird I always question the events surrounding its death. Did my feeding encourage it out too soon? Did I not feed enough and force it out thus making it vulnerable? Does producing this many owlets on one site encourage predators. I have to remind myself that I do the best I can and that I make a difference.I cannot do more.

As if the owls knew my melancholy, as if they sensed my bruised emotions they bestowed upon me the most marvellous fly pasts this evening. The usual three adults met me by the house, flying low and keen. As I approached the shed there was a notable absence of hissing but rounding the corner I found three handsome young owls waiting on the platform, staring disconsolately at it as if this alone would conjure up a feast. They too flew round behind the shed. On approaching the straw stack the usual hissing struck up and I counted two more in the west nest box and a further two high up in the straw. My torchlight picked out a further two still inside the shed. I watched with delight as they flew in to take the food, bumping, hissing, mantling and almost colliding in their clumsy haste.  What a treat. What a week. Bittersweet indeed.