Issue #56 A curious tale of three birds
Close encounters with some feathered friends in the woods
Hello there. Something a little different this week. I mentioned in our list of hopes and plans for 2024 that I wanted to write more about some of the remarkable encounters we have been lucky enough to have had with Nature. These are the small yet significant moments that shaped our relationship with the natural world and I guess that made us who we are today. This first one tells the tale of three birds and how we came to look into another way of being…
Mostly, our life in the woods was a quiet one, uninterrupted by unexpected visitors or cold callers. Our little barn sat at the end of a bumpy track that wound uphill for just over 1km, rendering us delightfully isolated from the outside world with just the trees, plants and many small scurrying creatures for company.
One dreary, mild autumn day, there was a knock at the door. The kind of knocking that had embedded within it in a sense of urgency. I opened the door to find Carol, the lady who cleaned the neighbouring property once a fortnight standing there. She was a retired accountant who cleaned houses for something to do. She seemed panicked and flustered.
In a quavering voice laced with terror, she told me there was a bird in the house. Actually, it was inside the stove. She didn’t know which kind of bird. She didn’t like birds. Or any other wild creature for that matter.
This was not the first time I had been called upon to help with wildlife related issues. The neighbouring house was a second home, abandoned for weeks at a time by its owner allowing plenty of time between visits for creatures to think it was ok to move in, perhaps justifiably so. But never a bird before. Feeling I should go in somewhat prepared, I grabbed some gloves and my butterfly net.
The house was empty and vast, grotesquely disproportionate for its single, mostly absent occupant. Exposed oak beams held the structure aloft, beautifully pegged and jointed by skilled craftspeople. A large, glass fronted wood burning stove stood in one corner. Behind the glass, a pied wagtail flitted too and fro. For a few minutes I stared into the stove window, as if watching a strange wildlife documentary on TV. The wagtail stopped occasionally to demonstrate its tail wagging prowess as I tried to figure out a way of getting the bird out of the stove without letting it loose in the house. I remember the perfect shiny, black, roundness of its eyes.
As I started to turn the handle on the stove door, Carol screamed. What if it escaped into the house? I assured her it would be fine, even though I wasn’t sure it would be. With my butterfly net poised, I opened the door a crack, barely big enough for a mouse to squeeze though and the wagtail slipped out and up onto an oak beam above large window. Carol screamed again. As if resigned to its fate, the wagtail sat on the beam wagging its tail, allowing me to reach up with my net and catch it. I held the bird in my hand inside the net as Carol opened the door. I unfolded the net from around its tiny body and off it flew, seemingly unscathed by its ordeal.
Carol thanked me profusely, as grateful as if she had been rescued from a burning building, and that was the end of that. Or so I thought.
A fortnight later, another knock on the door. Carol, the cleaning lady again. There was another bird in the house. She didn’t know what kind. She didn’t like birds. This time though it wasn’t in the stove, it was flying around the house. The cavernous, high ceilinged, oak beamed house. I grabbed some gloves and my net.
I opened the front door cautiously and scanned the large room for birdlife. The cleaner peered anxiously over my shoulder. Nothing.
Down from one of the beams a large brown creature swooped silently. The cleaner screamed and ran back out the door. A TAWNY OWL. How did she not know it was an owl? Surely even someone who doesn’t like birds can tell an owl apart from other birds when they see one? A tawny owl. How did it get in the house? Down the chimney of the open fireplace, like an avian Santa? A tawny owl. How was I supposed to catch a tawny owl?
The owl, beautifully, incongruously, swooped from one oak beam to another repeatedly. By a stroke of luck, it suddenly swerved and flew into a smaller room, a study. I shut the door; at least it was somewhat contained and I stood a better chance of rescuing it. I put my gloves on, and grabbed a towel from the downstairs bathroom before heading into the study myself, closing the door behind me. Until now, the owl had seemed calm - although of course it lives its life with a perception of the world so different from mine that I can only project and anthropomorphise - but in this smaller room, it lost any sense of dignity and flew from one window to the next, swooping low over my head and bashing into the glass as it did so. My plan was to open the windows and let it find its own way out, but before I could act it collided with the glass one too many times and sat, stunned on the window sill, glaring at me with black, round eyes; portals into another way of being. I threw the towel over its head and it sat perfectly still, apparently allowing me to pick it up. It was heavier than I expected, soft and warm, a small hard body engulfed in soft downy feathers. I feared for my hands as its piercing claws curled around my gloved fingers.
Outside, the owl, draped in the towel (the rhyme is intentional) sat perched on my arm like a small ghost. As I slowly took the towel off the owl’s head it sat motionless, making no effort to struggle or fly away. I could see its feathers in exquisite detail, many layers with many differing markings and patterns. A brief moment of total clarity. Staring into its dark eyes, I felt a kinship, two wild creatures bound together by our position in the universe and the forces that sculpted the earth into being. Yet, also distance and unfamiliarity. We do not relate to the external world in the same way as each other. I am envious of its ability to perceive the whole of Nature in a way completely removed of human ego. What do an owl’s internal thoughts sound like, I wonder? It is good to imagine yourself in the position of animal occasionally, a reminder that there is more than one way of looking at the world.
I began to wonder if the owl was too injured to fly, but it turned and swooped silently from my hand with a grace and elegance that belied any evidence of its previous predicament. The owl paused on the limb of an oak tree on the edge of the woods, looked back at us and then was gone.
Carol looked faint, bewildered and traumatised as we parted ways. I suspected this had not helped her relationship with birds, but at least her ordeal was over.
Two weeks later whilst out working, a text message came through from Emma.
“I’ve just had to rescue a kestrel from inside the neighbour’s stove…”
Well, that’s all for this week - what did you think about this issue? Would you like to hear more tales from the woods?
It has been wild and windy here, with last week’s wintry scenes a distant memory but we are hoping to get out in Nature this weekend regardless. How about you?
With warmest wishes,
Andrew, Emma and Benji
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What a brilliant tale... And what a privilege to get so close to those birds. Something tells me the birds might be trolling Carol...
Yes - more tales from the woods! This was a delight. Look for a link to it in my next newsletter. So worth sharing!