As summer turns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tenacity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midsummer box check.

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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!!