TAWNY OWL: face to face in a rain-drenched hollybush

FEW wild sounds are as quietly thrilling after dark than the mournful "hoooo...huhooo" of a tawny owl as its perches somewhere unseen, a lonely sentinel of the night.
It's the commonest of our owls whose adaptability has seen it thrive in some of our biggest towns and cities where small birds often replace the usual mice and voles on its menu.
Equally recognisable from its much sharper, almost screeching "kewick", this stubby chestnut and grey bird seems to have earned a unique place in the affections and folklore of the nation.
Any collection of wildlife nick-nacks or figurines seems incomplete without at least one tawny owl among them. But make no mistake, despite its loveable image, the tawny owl is an assassin out of the top drawer. Shakespeare probably had a tawny owl in mind when he wrote about the eerie night of King Duncan's murder in 'Macbeth':"A falcon, towering in her pride of place, was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd."
In fact, Shakespeare was well aware of the dramatic power owls can wield in our subconscious and often included them in his plays. This again from Macbeth:"It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, which gives the stern'st good-night."
A tawny owl, like most other owls, is a master of camouflage and even in daylight can sit undisturbed in trees or bushes until some prying blue-tit or sparrow disturbs it, raises the alarm, and sparks off a fit of mobbing.
Regular roosts are characterised by a sprinkling of pellets below and these regurgitated pods of fur and bone give a fascinating insight into the luckless creatures the bird has feasted on.
Unlike the barn owl, whose overall population has been decimated in recent decades, tawny owl numbers seem to have remained steady, which is heartening.
However, I might not hold quite so much affection for tawny owls had an incident some years ago not ended the way it did.
Back then I came, quite literally, face-to-face with a tawny owl and was probably lucky not to lose an eye, as others have done in similar encounters.
Those rapier talons that effortlessly snuff out the lives of countless mice and voles in a tawny owl's career can just as easily puncture a human eyeball. On the day I got a little too close for comfort, it had started to pour with rain, an absolute downpour which even in woodland had me looking for better cover. I found it in a thick collection of tall holly bushes, all growing side by side so that the overall shape resembled a large green bungalow.
I'd sheltered there before and, just as before, found the spacious central recess almost dry despite the deafening rattle of rain above and around me. Obviously, it was quite dark and fairly prickly in there but I was virtually able to stand up straight while I waited for the worst of the rain to ease.
After a few minutes, it did, and rather than shuffle straight back out again, I decided to push a couple of branches away with my arm to try to peer outside.
Immediately, I was confronted by two enormous black eyes staring back at me just a foot or so away. A tawny owl had been sitting there all the time. It's difficult to say who was the more startled, him or me. Perhaps he had been snoozing or, faced with a soaking, had just decided to sit tight until the rain stopped. Whatever, he now decided to act and went up vertically like a rocket through the 'roof' of the holly.
I took a couple of seconds to recover then crashed out of the bushes to try to spot him again. It wasn't too difficult. Despite soaring noiselessly to the top of a nearby birch tree, his sudden appearance had sparked outrage among other birds and he was quickly surrounded and mobbed. I watched as he flew from tree to tree vainly trying to shake off his tormentors until he finally disappeared. Sometimes, it's no fun being a predator.

DAVID KAVANAGH

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