Owl Sense

by Miriam Darlington

  As it gets dark and our powers of sight vanish the land is re-cloaked in moonlight. Unable to see clearly, we have to use our ears. ‘Listen,’ Milan says, ‘listen.’ He tells us the Long-eared Owls have seven or eight different calls: they have a deep call, which means ‘well fed’, and a breathy hooting territorial call, as well as low, soft hoots to communicate between pairs, and barking calls to use when alarmed. The male uses wing claps, and females sometimes also use this device when nesting, as well as distraction squeals, bill claps and hisses. But now, at this time of year, the owls hardly call at all, so we will hear very little. Outside the breeding season there is no need to vocalise much, but they do have one sound, Milan promises. It is a kind of soft bickering, as if they are discussing between themselves. Usually if another owl lands to perch too close they do it. Beside the spruces where an uncountable number of owl shapes are perched, we close our eyes and pay attention to the quiet conversations. From the branches, and all around, a soft, whickery ‘chitter’ is drifting. Slowly we tune into the purr of their night-song, the music of owls waking and sleeping, as they speak to one another of space, closeness and distance. What is it in these gentle voices? Clustered on their perches, they seem to speak of softening boundaries, of tolerance and acceptance of others perhaps.

  Finally, when it is too dark to see anything more, our hearts light and our fingers and toes numb, we troop back to the echoing castle café for a hot drink.

  As we sit at the table, our hands clasped around cups of steaming black tea, Milan explains his theory. ‘We’ve been able to convince people to protect these birds. We’ve said: Don’t shoot them, they’re protected, and people stopped. Boys used to shoot them for fun, now they get told off: they don’t do it.’ Lulled by the vapour from the tea and the warm room, I let Milan’s Serbian lilt wash over me. The Slavic accent sounds a little Russian, but complex and very pleasant, and in these tones he explains his theory of success for Long-eared Owls, which turns out to be a simple mathematical equation and chimes with the sensible use of the Barn Owl as pest control that I had heard about before.

  ‘If every year one pair of Long-eared Owls eats two kilos of rodents, it will save the grain the mice would eat, saving or providing enough extra income to buy two more cattle. You could increase your milk yield by eight thousand euros per year, no tax or VAT! So! Put up a nest box.’

  When you say it like that, it’s a no-brainer. Farmers should love and cherish owls. Perhaps many already do. My experience at home in England with the Barn Owls I studied was that many farmers were astonishingly fond of their owls. They were protective of them, possessive, even. Sometimes, they resisted our offers of ringing – not because they were being difficult, but because they didn’t want anyone disturbing their beautiful owls.

  On our way back to the minibus, Milan reassures me about the owl-pellet photo incident: ‘Now, if you really want to scare owls, you stand at the bottom of the tree, peer up, get eye contact with them, and make little scratching sounds, like a predator – a cat or a marten. That really scares them. They hate that.’ He laughs. I feel better. ‘We always put a ladder against the tree when we want to check a nest box or ring the chicks, and they don’t suspect a thing as there’s no scratching.’

  In this area of Serbia, named Vojvodina, it is the grasslands that are the special habitat, and the local hunting societies (there is one in every village) have bought land to protect it from the threat of encroachment by increasingly intensive agricultural exploitation. Interesting, I muse, that those very hunters that I disapproved of on the plane out here might actually be partly helping to preserve some of this land for nature. Perhaps this aspect of the economy, although seemingly destructive, is in fact contributing to the conservation of wildlife. The moral landscape of conservation is not always as black-and-white as it might seem.

  The next day we see what this duality means: at Slano Kopovo, a combined hunting and nature reserve where reed beds and lakes have been bought and protected, thousands of common cranes echo around us, their voices flooding the watery light of the sky like nothing I have ever heard. Some moments the sky is black with them; they flock from horizon to horizon as they converge at dusk on the shallow lake to roost.

  We stop at a cabin converted to receive visitors, and I collect walnuts from the ground to eat for lunch. Wildcats stalk about in the grass here, in this place that at this time of year looks like no more than miles and miles of flat fields.

  The Pannonian Plain has an amazing history, Milan explains. In centuries gone by it used to be a vast sea, then reed beds, then the grasslands that we now see remaining in patches and slivers, habitat for huddles of cranes, lapwings and hen harriers. How long would all these wild birds still be able to come here if Serbia were in the EU, with its area-payment subsidies that support the development of monocultures, I wonder? It needs protecting! The cranes have come here en route from Scandinavia, and stop at this patchwork of low-intensive grassland and arable farming as a vitally important site to roost and replenish themselves before continuing their journey over Bosnia and Croatia, Turkey and finally to Israel.

  We gaze out over miles of subtly misted light that lies soft over the plain and try to imagine it as it once was, just water, reeds and birds, without its chimneys and farmsteads. Ringing data tells us, Milan says, that the Swedish cranes go all the way to Spain, whereas the Finnish cranes head high across the Balkans all flying in their vast, echoing, honking, trumpeting formations. Swamping the sky with their sweeping echelons, they bring a bleating music that has not changed for thousands if not millions of years. Aldo Leopold in his ‘Marshland Elegy’ described the migrating crane as a trumpet in the orchestra of evolution, and a symbol of our untameable past:

  They live and have their being – these cranes – not in the constricted present, but in the wider reaches of evolutionary time. Their annual return is the ticking of the geological clock. Upon the place of their return they confer a peculiar distinction. Amid the endless mediocrity of the commonplace, a crane marsh holds a paleontological patent of nobility, won in the march of aeons, and revocable only by shotgun.

  I wonder what the future holds for places like this. Resounding in our ears they are a reminder of wild Europe, the laid-down layers of moss, peat and water, and the unending reedy marsh. Protected by the hunters that own these lakes, for now they are a sign of hope.

  Asio flammeus

  SHORT-EARED OWL

  At the beginning of time,

  The owl was brought out of bog oak.

  Over the water-blur of marsh and moor

  In ruffled curves, eyes interrogating

  The owl flits, god of the reeds.

  KENNETH STEVEN, ‘Owl’

  Dusk is falling fast. Milan has brought us to a castle where he knows migrating Short-eared Owls congregate. The sunset colours the crumbling buildings and tips everything with scarlet as if the rust-red of the autumnal sphagnum and bog myrtle from the wide, wet tundra has reached us here. Milan tries out his distressed-mouse call. First nothing happens, and then from the uppermost branches of a clump of pines a gold-backed shadow swoops. Another follows swiftly after, from the exact same pine. Now we watch their long, pale wings, less uniform and subtly brighter than the Long-eared’s wings. The Shorties have a clear, black carpal patch that shows up starkly against the pale plumage, like a small crescent visible on the ‘wrist’ of the underwing. Milan shows us how the wings seem to be marginally longer than those of the Long-eared Owl, but the flight is similar; rapid wingbeats and then glides. They flit and whirl skittishly around when they see us, their pale faces turning and switching back and forth, confused.

  ‘They are freaked out,’ Milan says, observing them closely. This is the most intense I’ve seen him. ‘They’re disorientated; look how they’re flying. They’ve just come all the way from the tundra, maybe a thousand miles, and they may not have seen people and towns before.’ Many Short-eared Owls migrate south in the winter and these two may have journeyed
from as far away as Scandinavia and the Russian tundra. This is a bird that comes here to feed and shelter in the winter, and although it is not so obviously communal as the Long-eared Owl, it can be seen in parties at this time, quartering grassland and gathering to hunt and roost in small groups. These two must be following others, perhaps on a set migration route, as we spot one more high in a tree, then another. They’re one of the few owls that can be seen in daylight in Europe and we’re getting a treat here as we can look up and see them from below, dispersed in the pines. They seem anxious, uncertain. ‘The most important thing to remember,’ Milan says, ‘is to keep our distance, and not peer up and get eye contact with the owls while they are perched in their roosts. If you do that, they think you’re planning to pounce, get startled and take to the wing.’

  As we watch, Margaret slips away to see if she can frame one in her long lens. She is stealthy, and the only one of us who has not yet startled the owls, or had to endure a walk of shame. I observe Margaret as she quietly sets up a photo. This is an experienced photographer. She’s so quiet, in her stealth-soft clothes. She wears a fleece that doesn’t rustle, and soft camo trousers – and she is as unobtrusive and twig-slim as the owls themselves. It is very hard to get a good shot of these shy birds when what little light there is falls behind them in their pine-needle world. They are either in silhouette, or covered by branches. Later, Margaret sends me some of her shots, and I see her generosity as well, especially since I lost heart and took no more pictures after the Kikinda debacle. There we all are, looking up, as we have been trained to do by David and Milan. Observing the owls we have each developed our own tracking stance, as if the key to getting close to these creatures is not simply wanting to get a perfect image, but knowing that it is not about us, it is about respect, reverence even.

  Just before the light disappears I catch one in my binoculars, perched on the high branch of a silver spruce. Its shadowy black eye-mask looks like strange goth make-up and is a stunning contrast to the pale, bulbous-looking face and vibrant yellow eyes. The owl is clearly bewildered by our presence. What must we look like to this tribe of the tundra? We, the strange wingless creatures creeping about like beetles amongst the echoing architecture of this building with its crenellations, smoothly plastered cliffscapes and confusing arches. Feeling my clumsy humanness I take a step back, wanting to let go of my curiosity, to disappear and cease this endless observation, this persistent chasing.

  ‘It’s so rare to see a Short-eared Owl on the edge of a village like this,’ Milan calls softly from beneath his binoculars, renewing my gaze. ‘Look at the way they fly – you can tell it is a Short-eared Owl by the way it flies around and around like that – it doesn’t want to leave, it wants to go back to its same branch. They have to be economical, save energy. Once they find a perch they like, they stick to it, and return to the familiar spot.’

  I think how exhausted the Short-eared Owls must be. Perhaps for some of them this is their first winter migrating to a strange place. They may have flown here from the Arctic tundra to avoid starvation, to find voles and to shelter here in the milder climate of 10 degrees Celsius. What will they do when the really cold weather hits in January? I’ll be interested to find out if the Short-eared Owls in Britain behave in the same way, but meanwhile Milan’s close observations continue.

  ‘But look at the way it flies when it is startled,’ he says, encouraging us to recognise the birds’ special movement, or ‘jizz’ as birdwatchers term it. In ornithology the word ‘jizz’ is commonly used to describe an individual bird’s shape, posture, habitual movements and flying style. Experienced enthusiasts and experts can reliably identify a bird’s jizz in this way with just a glance, in conjunction with habitat and location. The etymology of this interesting word is obscure but some believe it has been compressed from a Second World War acronym GISS that was used for the identification of the General Impression of Size and Shape of an aircraft. Now, sadly, the word has to be used with more care and can cause misunderstandings amongst people who are not familiar with birding jargon, as it can also mean something less pure than the flight and movement of a bird.

  The owl circles on long, black-tipped wings, around and around, as if conflicted, wanting to go back, but too nervous. Surely this is how any newcomer would behave, unsure, awkward, not speaking the local language, jittery and slightly dazed by the newness of the surroundings, but clinging to whatever small thing is familiar. The world must be reduced to its essentials to migrants. Ground, sky, tree; water, food, shelter.

  *

  If it isn’t the ears of this owl that turn out to be its most striking feature, it’s the eyes that have it. Linnaeus spotted the dazzling yellow gaze and black mascara mask that marks out Asio flammeus, the flame-eyed owl, and named it accordingly. Many owls have yellow eyes, and this usually marks them out as daylight hunters. The amber and orange-eyed owls might often hunt more in the low light at dusk and dawn, and the darker, brown-eyed owls hunt almost exclusively at night. It isn’t just the eyes that make the Short-eared Owl flame-like though – there’s something about the way the light works to catch and brighten its plumage as well. The so-called ‘short ears’ of this owl are again not true ears but neat tufts of feathers that the owl uses for communication and display. Even more confusingly, these small tufts are usually invisible, so at a distance, or in poor light, or in flight the owl could be mistaken for a Long-eared Owl (whose tufts vanish in the same way in flight) or even a Barn Owl. Its true ears are the hidden asymmetrical ears, embedded deep in the feathers behind the facial disc, just like all the other owls we’ve met on this journey. When perched and on the alert the owl periodically raises its tufts like small Beelzebub horns. They can protrude subtly from just behind the apex of the facial disc when the owl is startled or vigilant, and they can show to varying degrees when the bird feels threatened.

  Milan has watched these birds so closely, tuned into their behaviour, observed them arriving and watched what they do, even down to the way they fly and how different that is from the Long-eared’s flight. He tells of how the ‘Shortie’ has a more wavering hunting flight than the Long-eared, and although it is heavier built, its wingbeats are shallower, the wings more pointed, and during glides it sometimes holds them in a V-shape. I’m in awe of his forensic eye for detail.

  In flight this owl’s wings do appear slenderer than the Longeared’s, with a white trailing edge, and they are distinctly barred on the primaries, ending in those distinguishing black tips. It has a streaked upper breast and neck but a pale belly as opposed to the entirely streaked front of its Long-eared cousin.

  Author Henry Tegner recounts the experiences and observations of a Northumbrian farm labourer, known as ‘The Molecatcher’, who describes a windswept winter sighting of the arrival of the ‘horned owl’. Whilst gathering sea coal that had washed in from the coal seams on the Northumberland coast, over the grey tumbled waters he noticed a large number of herring gulls circling and diving. It was a concentrated attack on a large bird flying just above the tips of the waves. When it reached the dunes it continued over the Molecatcher’s head and plunged to earth in a clump of bracken. In its course overhead the Molecatcher had recognised the bird as a ‘horned owl’, but as it landed, a goldcrest flew up. The Molecatcher mused that this tiny winter migrant to our shores had hitched a lift on the owl all the way from Scandinavia. Was this an example of ‘avian-assisted transportation’? Both birds naturally manage the migration from Scandinavia in moderate numbers each winter and are likely to be following the migration routes and air currents of the East Atlantic flyway. But would a tiny bird stow away on a dangerous predator? The flight of this owl when journeying is powerful and direct, and it has slow, steady wingbeats; you can see how a human might assume this to be a reassuring lift for a small bird.

  *

  Back at home, the winter winds grew big, swooping in from the west and north and tearing at trees and roofs. The Met Office had declared that any winter storm with
the power to damage should now be named. The effect was supposed to be that people would take heed and sensibly prepare. So the fearful elemental power now shaking our house and battering the windows until they seemed convex had a name, and something about it had a character: this was Storm Gertrude.

  In early December we had endured Storm Desmond, one of the most destructive storms to hit the north-west of England, and Storm Eva had caused more devastation over Christmas; Storm Frank had then delivered a new bout of misery to the south-west for New Year, cancelling most people’s parties, flooding roads and pulverising travel plans. Each with a personality all its own, winds were not winds any longer, they were malevolent entities. None of us in the south-west, from Penzance to Plymouth, would forget Storm Frank, whose monstrous waves had begun by battering Galway, Kilkenny, Cork and Wexford. Then all across Britain, from west to east, from Dumfries and Galloway to Peebles and Hawick, homes lost power. In Cornwall and Devon horrendous waves crashed high over cliffs, floods rose, traffic was disrupted and seaside walls, houses, cafés and shops were smashed. Extensive flooding and power loss had spread from the coast of Ireland to the heart of Britain within a few short hours. And so with the next bout of lowering cloud in the sky and a swirl of violent weather systems on the forecast, we hunkered down and expected more doom-laden news. Then Storm Gertrude hit.

  Rainwater flooded through our leaky bedroom windows. It kept us awake until the small hours. Rick ran back and forth with a tub to catch at least a portion, but most of it did what water does, and by morning the carpet was ruined. We had mopped up as best we could, and I thought of getting out again. Trips to the windswept high moors had become a winter regularity to look for what might have blown in on the breast of all the fresh winds. I had flown back from Belgrade in Serbia with a clearer picture emblazoned on my memory of the graceful flight, and the long wings, the stark form of the Short-eared Owl’s face and the light fluttering glides it performed. I wanted to see it on local moorland, and I knew it would be there. This owl is quite diurnal in its hunting so can be seen if you can get to the moors or the coastal marshes, dunes and reedy places where it likes to perch and hunt. Their perch is more slanting than many owls, but when in flight their sheer grace and agility are astounding. They swoop low, swerve and lift, clearly showing their bright plumage, white underwings and smouldering eyes.