Towards dusk, drizzly cloud had cleared from the eastern moors; now black night was hardening to frost. Rattling briskly along under Hollin Bank, I had almost reached the junction above the woods of North Lees when a sudden whiteness appeared from over my right shoulder: a wedge of a bird, all head and then a delicate tapering, as light as snowfall. The barn owl pirouetted in a tight arc just in front of me, fluttering like a moth to land on a fence post. Then it folded its wings and turned its moon face towards where I stood frozen to the spot, head shifting deliberately from side to side.
A relaxed owl will fluff up like a ball; this one remained sleek and watchful, legs tensed. In the moments before it lifted silently again on those broad wings to slip back into the night, I stilled my mind and tried to absorb this hunter’s uncanny presence.
A barn owl looks solid, but under all those feathers its skeleton tells the real story. They are all head and talons, with the slenderest body in between, and carry little fat in reserve. A barn owl is never far from hunger. This one glowed palely in the dark; it’s this spectral quality combined with the owl’s demonic screech of a voice, like fingernails down a chalkboard, that sparked its supernatural reputation. Yet for me it’s their quietness that is most uncanny.
Not even the very best microphones can catch a trace of its wing beats, let alone the human ear. The barn owl’s ears, on the other hand, are exquisitely evolved to locate prey in low light and can easily tell the difference between the rustle of a leaf or vole. Their ears are hidden in dense feathers to the side of the eyes on the dish-like face and are both slightly different in size and offset, so the owl can calibrate more precisely the position of its next victim. Half a metre from its next meal, the feet come forward and the talons spread. At the moment of impact, the legs stretch and the head goes back, the eyes close and this beautiful bird’s intimate soundscape is complete.
