It was dark when I realized the washing was still on the line. I put on my coat and went outside. The sun was setting, pink drifts crossed the sky and on the horizon there was a fierce orange-red glow. I stood watching. It was cold and growing darker by the minute, but the sunset held me there. It was so quiet and I felt peaceful and at one with the world. Suddenly, out of the utter stillness of the night came a shriek. Although I had never heard the sound before I knew from reading what it was – a barn owl. I looked out across the fields, but could see nothing.
There are no barn owls in the area. How could I have heard one? Fifteen to twenty years ago two were released locally, but after a few days, were never seen again. I hastened indoors to tell Mike.
The next afternoon about 4:30pm we were down by the river admiring the rafts of golden yellow and orange leaves drifting by when we were delighted to see a kingfisher not once or twice, but five times, and the last time not one but two kingfishers. We were thrilled.
We turned our attention to a nearby stretch of grass and watched two bats hawking. After ten minutes we decided to go home, but as we turned our eyes swept the field to our left where we were amazed to see, like a ghostly apparition, a barn owl quartering it. Spellbound, we watched him flying low, skimming the long grass, back and forth, from side to side. Once he landed briefly in a tree only to soon return and continue his hunting. We looked at each other, huge grins spread across our faces – so we do have at least one barn owl in the area. It was a rare and magical find for both of us.
The river has yielded our best times this autumn: hazelnuts to eat, sloes to make sloe gin, conkers to gather and admire, berries and autumn leaves to draw, so many creatures to enjoy, and a chance riverboat trip complete with a glass of wine thanks to a friendly stranger. Long live the river!
