My close encounter was in the woods near the house, with a sleepy Tawny Owl, a dirty stop-out who had fallen asleep on a small branch, low down in a silver birch right next to the path. As if nervous about falling off its perch while it slept the owl had positioned itself next to the thin trunk and was propped against this seemingly for support. I stood and watched the sleeping hunter, dogs silent at my feet until it slowly woke, eyes opening reluctantly and blinking in the light, as if taking a moment to remember where it was. It saw me, it sat still, I stood motionless barely breathing, not ten feet from the beautiful raptor. I raised my binoculars to see each intricate detail of the feathers, a pattern in every shade of brown, the perfect camouflage for its woodland habitat. I didn't want to move and startle the bird causing it to expend precious energy in flying away so the stand-off continued for perhaps another minute until the owl dropped soundlessly from the branch, spreading impressive wings over my head and disappeared into the trees to find a more private spot to sleep the day away.
I never walk past that spot without remembering that moment of magic that happened about ten years ago. Recently I was walking in the opposite direction and looking to pick out the exact branch where that owl had sat when suddenly one of the dogs (Bobby, uncharacteristically!) saw or smelt something and dived into the sparse undergrowth beneath the tree. As I grabbed him I sensed movement and looked up just in time to see a tawny owl departing a small dead tree only a few feet above my head, an almost silent flap of wide brown wings and it was gone as if I had dreamt it!
I always feel close to birds at this time of year, probably because they are so active, so busy and ubiquitous in their calling, flitting, feeding endeavours. Even on a drenching day of rain the birdsong is incessant and I only wish I could distinguish more of those perfect tunes. I miss my Dad as I try to identify just one bird by its song. Not the older Dad whose hearing failed him, who couldn't walk too far into the wild places but the my-age Dad who tried to teach me the calls of all the classics as we walked for miles; the repetitive notes of the song thrush, the melodious blackbird and those we've attached phrases to such as the yellow-hammer's "little bit of bread and no cheese". I haven't heard a yellow-hammer since my Dad was the age I am now, they have become a rare sighting sadly but it could equally be the inability of my tone-deaf ears to pick out a tune! (40 million birds have been lost in this country since I was born in 1970). One I could always name as my young legs strode out alongside Dad was the grasshopper warbler, less of a song than a vibration exactly like the insect it is named for - this one was unmistakable! I remember proudly raising a finger in the hushing motion we use when we want to share something we've heard with a companion; listen Dad, the grasshopper warbler! But he couldn't hear it, the low pitch of this tiny bird hidden in the nearby reeds was the first sound lost to my Dad as his hearing slowly began to fail. (He blamed the damage to his ears on a shotgun that accidentally went off in the back of a van he was travelling in many years earlier but that's another story!!)
Birds were a feature of my childhood because my parents were both keen birdwatchers. Not twitchers who tick their sightings off on a list or sit for hours waiting for a rare visiting species about which they've received a tip-off, just people who have a deep interest and knowledge, a love and an understanding, who have a decent pair of binoculars with them on most walks and know when and where to expect different species as they travel through the seasons. We were members of the RSPB with our little enamel avocet badges and once made a pilgrimage to Scotland on our first family camping holiday to see the nesting ospreys at Boat of Garten. I was four years old but I've never forgotten it.
In about 1976 our cat killed the mother of a family of thrushes that we had been watching in our garden. We had seen the adults gathering nest building materials, spotted the nest in one of our poplar trees and watched the hen bird sitting on the eggs but then the disaster happened and we felt responsible (or my parents did, I was only about 6 years old!). Somehow the decision was made to intervene so the nest was taken carefully down from the tree with the tiny chicks safely inside and we set about rearing them by hand. Even in my childish memory this was a full time job, those babies were hungry. All the time! It started with a pipette of water and soon progressed to some sort of mealy mixture like soggy cereals and I'm not sure we really expected the fledglings to survive but they flourished and our work intensified. We were constantly digging for small earthworms, cutting them into manageable bits, searching for caterpillars as well as keeping the nest clean as the parent thrushes would have done by removing the faecal sacs. As we entered the shed they would raise their heads, throw open their gaping mouths and demand more food! I can still smell that nest now, probably not a particularly pleasant smell but I loved everything about it including the scent of droppings and dead worms!
 |
| Photo courtesy of The Sentinel circa 1976 |
The local paper heard about the story and came to take photos and write a piece which appeared in The Sentinel. It was all very exciting but in the back of our minds was always the knowledge that we would have to let the young birds go. They started to demonstrate signs of fledging, perching wobbling on the rim of the nest frantically flapping their short wings, getting ready to fly. Whilst we would have loved to keep them close and monitor their progress as they learned to fend for themselves we couldn't risk the instincts of the cat kicking in again so we knew we had to take them further afield. After giving them practise at finding bits of food we had secreted amongst a box of twigs and leaves the time came to release them into the wild. We loaded them into a box and into the car and drove them to the edge of our favourite place, Hanchurch woods. We carried the box a little way down a track known as Lonely Lane and with a profound amalgamation of joy and sorrow set them down on the ground where they took their first tentative hopping steps into the wild. They were wide-eyed but off they went without a backward glance and soon started to peck at the ground and fly up into the nearby bushes. We watched for a short while before turning back and heading home to clear the stinky old nest out of the shed. I often wonder how those four little birds got on....I hope their descendants are nesting in Hanchurch Woods right now.
So in my mind spring is largely about the birds, the arrival of the summer visitors who choose our little piece of the planet over all others which, when you think about it, is pretty incredible. We are so lucky to have them! The frantic courtship, nest building, feeding to build up strength before the long days of sitting on eggs and then the dawn till dusk job of feeding the young, keeping them healthy, clean and safe before encouraging them out into the world. By which time the parents are thin, scruffy, exhausted and starving...but they usually do it all over again before the summer is out, making the most of the long hours of daylight and plentiful supply of food. Of course all this is completely dependant on so many factors, all of which herald the other signs of spring; tree buds finally bursting open to release the concertina folds of downy lime-green beech leaves, their golden husks cast off and gathering like snow on the forest floor and floating in puddles like confetti, bluebells ringing loud in our eyes, a shimmer of insect food and joy, tadpoles fattening on a diet of algae blooming in the sunlight, fern fronds unfurling with a delicacy that belies their strength in pushing out of the warming soil....there is so much life!
This year I have tried to carry the binos with me most days and to spend more time looking, listening, watching as I pass through the woods. The rewards have been plentiful; I have learnt to recognise the beautiful song of the black cap and watched as its grey throat fluffs out vibrating with the melody blasting out from a willow or pine. I have followed the scuttling tree creeper as it winds its way up the rough bark, probing its long curved beak into tiny crevices for food and I have seen wrens disappearing into a stony hole under the eaves of a nearby barn. Grey wagtails bounce on the rocky islands of the woodland stream and chase each other along its length - they have a nest for sure but they're keeping it from me.
 |
| Nick's picture of our Tawny Owl |
And an owl...in the last two weeks we have had a few utterly magical owl meetings across the road, just a matter of metres from our house. We sleep mostly out in the cabin now that the nights are shorter so the last thing we hear is the calling of the tawny owls and usually we wake to the persistent cuckoos who send their echoes along the valley at first light as a backdrop to the dawn chorus. But we have come across an owl in broad daylight, disturbing it from a tree immediately behind the cabin. On each occasion the tawny owl has refused to fly far into the woods and so we have been able to creep close to it as it finds a new resting place. We try to walk as silently as the owl flies, the soft forest floor absorbing our steps, with one eye on the ground and one up in the tree canopy trying to spot the elusive bird. I wonder how many times it has watched us walk by without us noticing it? Scanning the mossy trunks and twisted branches we spot the mottled breast and dark face, huge eyes fixed on us. An old name for the tawny was 'wood owl' because it blends so perfectly with its woodland habitat but here, in England's highest beech wood above sea level, the trees are cloaked in bright green moss and the brown owl is not so well camouflaged, luckily for us! Slowly we approach, taking care not to disturb the bird, each time feeling more confident having got so close before. Whilst the disc of the face follows our every move it feels as if we are trusted, as if having seen us pass by so often the owl knows we mean no harm, knows we will respect its space and let it rest quietly. We get within 20 feet of the tree and the bird is no more than 15 feet above the ground, we can see every feather, our insufficient eyes lock with its unimaginably powerful gaze; it can probably see the pores of our skin, the dapple of our irises. We are all rapt. Filled with the joy of this encounter we continue on our walk, once returning after about half an hour to find that the owl hasn't moved. As dusks creeps across the valley tonight this stunning creature will wake for its nocturnal hunting and hopefully we'll hear it as we drift off to sleep...
