Calamity.

I was so very happy to have the owlets hissing and raising a racket as I walked down each evening. I imagined them testing their flying skills on the newly stacked hay and fledgling across the freshly cut hay field. As this past week commenced I realised serious trouble for the owlets and for some of them, my realisation has come too late.

It was last Monday as I walked down early before work and was excited to see a little form on the nest box porch. As I crept stealthily closer it didn't move and I was virtually under the nest box itself when I realised we had lost one of the owlets. Its partially formed wing was draped over the box edge, quite lifeless. I left it there in the hope that the parents would discard it and I could examine its sorry remains for clues of its demise but in their usual unsentimental way the adults ignored it and it was left to Rob throw it down when he was in the straw stack.

It didn't need an expert to ascertain the cause of death. The owlet was about six weeks old with its wing feathers forming nicely but it was little more than skin and bone. It had undoubtedly starved. I increased the feeding yet the following morning I was greeted by an owlet that had tumbled from the box.It was sitting jauntily upon a lorry body eyeing me warily. I wrapped it in my cardigan and laid it upon its back feeling it immediately relax and this was how I waited for Rob and Sam to fetch the ladder and return it to its roost. As I stood quietly I was startled to feel how thin this youngster was too yet I simply couldn't understand why. The weather had been reasonably settled and I hadn't noticed the adults hunting by day which would indicate that they were struggling. We left the kestrel's breakfast in the box with this youngster and I considered the possibility that we may have lost one of the adult birds. This would undoubtedly lead to difficult times and I watched them ever more closely after dark whilst still keeping my distance.

 These events alone would have been a sorry state of affairs yet things were compounded further on the Thursday. Whilst leaving food as close to the box as we dare Sam noticed feathers at the front of the box. A quick photo told us that another owlet had perished. It was probably too old to be the tumbled owlet but as with the first casualty this one was well formed with an almost full set of wing feathers. Once again, it seemed that starvation was the most likely cause.

I racked my brains and asked around for advice. Last year had been a bumper year for barn owls due to the glut of field voles. A year such as this is always followed by a slump in vole numbers. Events began to make sense. My dog spent the whole of last summer pouncing upon voles in the grass field but this year he hasn't done this at all. My cats have not returned home with that obligatory gift of a juicy fat vole for me. It would seem that the owls aren't hunting as there is very little to catch. I considered the weather and another owl enthusiast pointed to the exceptionally dry conditions. Vole eat green shoots and with no rain whatsoever during April and May there were no green shoots to sustain the few voles we had. They wouldn't breed in such conditions.

I was beyond cross with myself for not realising sooner. The hissing and hubbub that I had witnessed and the bravery of the owlets was simply because they were starving. I had a freezer full of food and had I realised I could have left more. Hindsight is a wonderful thing but sadly it is too late for these owlets. I now walk down each evening in enormous trepidation anticipating silence where once there was new life. As yet there appear to be two still alive that hiss urgently. The other positive news is that there still appear to be two adults flying in to feed them. I hope we can save them yet.

But it is not all sadness. The little owls have fledged and I catch sight of their tiny barrelled bodies ricocheting through the air each evening. The kestrel chicks are also on the cusp of fledging and I see at least three of these chittering excitedly as dad flies in with breakfast to their nest box home. Finally, with the summer solstice, the owl that flies in from the north can clearly be seen going to and fro as it collects its share of the cache. Without these other hungry raptors it is true to say my owlets may still be alive but I cannot dictate where the food will go.Although I am immensely sorry and guilt ridden that their little lives were cut short I can only look put this down to bitter experience and look for the positives. With the lockdown easing Paddy will come soon to check the nest box. I hope by then I have happier news to report to you.

Still learning.

 I woke up to rain this morning and as I write this, the rain is hammering down on the roof once more. I am not complaining as the farmers desperately needed this. One of the things the lockdown will be remembered for is the clear blue skies that helped to lift our spirits. It almost felt as if nature was showing us how beautiful she could be when our lives were stripped bare.

The owls benefited from this sustained dry spell which took us through April and May. During April I barely saw an owl but continued to dutifully deliver the food which I knew they would need with females sitting so early in the season . The vole population hadn't built up sufficiently to provide for so many mouths and as my feeding had lulled them into sitting so soon I had an obligation to help them. As May arrived I began to hear that soothing familiar hiss of the barn owlets calling for food and the parents became more noticeable once more despite the settled weather.

This incessant rain is not welcomed by the owls. As their owlets grow and become more demanding they have suddenly found it impossible to hunt. I sense their urgency as I walk down. I feel ambiguous about seeing them flying so bravely. It is thrilling to watch them so brazen, circling me as I walk and flying alongside me but I know it is simply out of necessity and that concerns me.

Last night I chose to wait and watch them. All of the adults wait for me by the house but there is a kestrel here too. It flies in first, much to the owls disdain. It has the audacity to sit over the food choosing carefully but they are too impatient and fly in sending him upwards and away. Most of the adults fly back to their tree perches and I assume they eat my offerings whilst I drop food at the other three feeding stations. One, however flies over to the sheds and I run back in that direction hoping to see which nest box it takes the food to. I am far too slow and it is in and away again before I arrive in this quarter.

The oldest owlets are delightful. They must be about five weeks old. I know because they come right out of the nest box when I whistle and peer precariously over the edge of the nest box to look at me. It is beginning to rain yet still they jostle to take a peep at me. The hissing reaches a crescendo and I realise that for their safety I need to walk as quietly and unobtrusively to their nest box so as not to cause any of them to fall. Yet still I delight at their fluffy little hair styles and those large obsidian eyes staring directly at me.

The little owls, meanwhile have fledged. The adults make such a fuss that I can tell exactly where their babies are by their increased vocalisations. One of the adults watches me with that indignant look upon its face from the shed roof struts. It looks as if the wind has changed whilst it was having grumpy thoughts and this is now its default mode. I worry for the youngsters with so much activity from the other raptors but there is little I can do but hope they stay safe.

Over by the grain store there is an area in the shadows. I settle down to watch, hidden in the darkness. If I had momentarily forgotten how silent barn owls are in flight I was to have it beautifully illustrated to me. Within a couple of minutes the first owl glided in so very close to me that its wing tip nearly brushed my cheek. It was accompanied by another owl further away but they weren't a pair. The second bird landed deftly upon the platform and flew straight back out of the farm. It too had owlets but not here. The other owl busied itself. I watched in fascination as it took a chick from the platform beneath its box, flew to the shed to rearrange its grip and then straight back up to the box. It did this four times in quick succession. The noise from the box was immense, akin to something from a horror movie. The screeching intensified and they scuffled and squabbled over the food. Talons scraped across the box floor making them sound demonic. It was hard to imagine that such almost supernatural noises were coming from those endearing bundles of fluff.

I had waited specifically to find out a little more about the shed pair. I still rarely see the adult birds taking food in and cannot help but wonder if this brood has failed. Perhaps this pair are more competent hunters and as such less reliant upon me but I would have expected more activity. As I stood silently the female returned. She sat on her door gap and peered below at the food. Meanwhile the adult that had been feeding the hungry owlets continued to collect food, and alighted just below her. I watched in admiration as these two birds sat quite companionably close to each other. I have seen their territorial side and it is quite terrifying yet here they sat together, bound by the common cause of providing for their families. As they both flew off to their nest sites I took my leave, happy to learn something new about these formidable birds.

On a small family farm in Fenland.

I leave my house and set off along the single track road that links my house to our family farm in the heart of The Fens. Its nearly eight years now since I first began walking out each evening, always at dusk, intent and purposeful. I whistle the same familiar two notes and pan the torch ahead of me. Invariably an barn owl, sometimes two, fly to my bidding, circling close before flying back to the farm yard to wait impatiently for me to arrive. No matter how often it happens, that acknowledgement thrills me to the pit of my stomach. They know that I will feed them as soon as I catch up with them.

The Fens are a stronghold for barn owls. the dykes and ditches that stitch this unique landscape together make perfect wildlife corridors for them to hunt over. The lack of busy main roads safeguard them against one of their biggest enemies; traffic. There are also people such as myself who are delighted to find themselves living alongside these magnificent birds and whilst few people feed the owls that live within close proximity to them, many provide nest boxes and hunting grounds for them. Fenland folk are fortunate to regularly see a barn owl quartering its territory both by dusk and dawn in their travels across this unusual landscape.

 In June I run my errand well after 10 pm and still the vast horizon sports the most brilliant of colours. Blue fades to turquoise then white before hues of yellow ochre and finally scarlet paint these skies. It is my favourite time of year for owl feeding when conditions are mild and hospitable and the owls are particularly keen to see me. Their urgency is palpable because June is the month for owlets.

I feed at four places across the farm. It gives them a little space as barn owls can be territorial. Since I began feeding them however, we now have two pairs that nest side by side, plus kestrels in a third nest box and little owls between them all in a hole in the straw. As I reach the first feeding platform I pan the torch again and see with satisfaction that the owls are assembled. One is perched high above me in the ash tree whilst a pair sit companionably together in the nearby walnut tree. As I leave they need little bidding and fly straight in. With wings held upwards and talons outstretched they grab at the food and within a split second are gone upwards and away into the darkness.

I rarely pause but continue onward across the farm, past the open sheds that provide dry hunting opportunities throughout the winter and past the zinc shed which one pair of owls have commissioned for themselves. It has a door that has dropped on its hinges to offer a perfectly sized entrance and exit for an owl and as it is rarely used by us, they favour this nest site. I leave food just outside on another makeshift platform before continuing to the dutch barn. Here we have two more nest boxes and I listen with huge satisfaction at the soft, insistent hissing of the owlets inside the first box. They are used to my whistling and know that it signals the arrival of supper. Their excitement is tangible. The cacophony of noise that grows louder every evening tells me this is a thriving brood. I eagerly anticipate the days in the not too distant future when these owlets will be flying to greet me too. It is marvellous to stand and watch as the farm becomes awash with these elegant beauties.

Feeling satisfied that all is well I continue on  to the furthermost end of the dutch barn. This final platform is underneath the box used by the kestrels. They too fly by night. Only last week one flew past so close I could have reached out and touched it. The little owls take food from here too and one sits in the trees along the dyke side totally unperturbed by me  and glaring indignantly, a little pepper pot of fury yet so incredibly endearing.

My job is done yet the spectacle is by no means over. As I walk back to exit the yard, an adult flies up to the unruly barn owlets with food and I hear their noisy clamouring. The adult totally disregards me and flies over to the shed for more food. I play my part in the charade and continue walking,not wanting to intrude for the farm belongs to them after darkness has fallen. At the gate I pause and watch the shed intently. Sure enough an adult bird appears on the door frame and surveys the area taking her time, weighing up the situation. Only when she is satisfied all is safe does she alight upon the platform just below her and choose her supper. She takes it straight back into the shed. Her owlets are younger. I know this as she has only just reappeared from brooding the eggs. Soon I hope there will be hissing from this box too.

There is one bird left I haven't seen. I am a little early and so I wait patiently by the farm gate for it to arrive. Every summer we are visited by another owl.It must surely be a youngster from a previous year that knows about my evening offerings and that now has hungry youngsters of its own to sustain. Perhaps it enjoys the challenge but every evening it bravely flies against the sunset and into the yard. Without delay, it swiftly snatches up its share of the bounty before flying directly, low and keen in the direction from which it came. Our farm owls are incensed by its presence and show their territorial instincts with blood curdling screeches. I admire its courage and secretly wish it well.

Its time to leave, to walk the way I came and I smile as I go. I have no idea how long I will continue to do what I do but I know that I am extremely privileged to be able to observe this spectacle each evening, on a small, family farm in Fenland.

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Braver and braver

After weeks of barely the glimmer of a white wing from my barn owls the past couple of weeks couldn't be more different. One regularly meets me along the road and flies buoyantly along beside me as I walk into the farm yard whilst others circle upwards to my whistling. They wait amid the newly unfurled leaves, sitting patiently yet keenly anticipating the food that I take them. As I walk away from my first feeding station they fly in, trusting my movements and knowing I will continue across the yard.

We know there are owlets in the nest box on eastern edge of the dutch barn and their hissing becomes more audible by the day. Despite my familiarity with the owls I have been amazed by the sheer brazenness of this adult pair. They fly to the nest box with food whilst I am dropping more food at the furthermost end just twenty metres away. I walk back past their nest box to leave the yard but this does not deter them. This week I watched as the female left the nest box and flew to the shed feeding platform. There she sat staring intently at me with those dark, all seeing eyes before dismissing me and flying straight back up to her hungry brood. It feels such a huge honour to be acknowledged and almost accepted in this way, to be trusted with their secret that they have guarded so well up until now. Watching them busily feeding their growing brood like this each evening I anticipate a good number of owlets for this pair which were new to the farm last year.

Our regular pair still frequent the box in the shed just a few metres from the east nest box. I watch them leave here and sometimes return but I worry that they are intimidated by the braver pair close by. I remind myself that their broods were both later than the ones in east nest box last year and as such there will be less urgency from them. There is a second entrance to this secure nest site which the owls can access from across the grass field. I am also reassured that here is plenty of food and the weather favours good hunting opportunities. This pair have reared two broods at this nest site for the past two years and despite my concerns I am optimistic for them.

But my owlish escapades are no longer just an evening spectacle. I am now fortunate enough to receive a morning performance too. With the settled weather I am not seeing the barn owls hunting by morning light but both the kestrels and the little owls wait for me as I walk the dog. There are a pair of kestrels in the nest box on the westernmost corner of the dutch barn but there is also a rogue male and I suspect at least one of these birds if not both are the youngsters we saved last summer. The little owls appear to be nesting in the straw stack as they did last year. That makes four nests of raptors in the space of thirty metres. I just leave two day old chicks on the platform under the kestrel box and stand back to watch. My most spectacular moment of the week occurred when the feisty little owl flew in first to secure its breakfast closely followed by the rogue kestrel. The owl dragged its breakfast after it but dislodged the second chick which the kestrel caught in mid air. I was lucky to capture these shots. that morning but am captivated every day as I watch to see who is waiting and how the drama unfolds.

But it is now apparent that although the owls and kestrels are continuing to perpetuate the circle of life, this year we will not have the opportunity to find out for sure what delights those nest boxes contain. As with many things in these present uncertain times there will be no ringing of the owlets, for first broods at least. Despite Paddy rarely seeing anyone as he checks the boxes across field and fen, his journey and purpose is deemed unnecessary and as such he will not be visiting. It is a shame yet totally understandable in the circumstances.

So last week I ordered this, a  new trail cam which should capture anything that occurs when I am no longer in the farm. Initially I hope to put it in the shed as these are the birds I am most concerned to find out about. Its time to get technical!!

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.