‘Merry note’ stymies sleep

Iwas woken just before 4am by the persistent hooting of a tawny owl sitting in an elderly beech tree across the road. Several others were chiming in as I lay listening. Curiosity got the better of me and I hopped out of bed, opened the front door and stood outside listening.

Owls prefer to roost in broadleaf woodland and the agricultural improvers of the 18th and 19th Centuries planted hundreds of thousands of beech trees in the home policies and along the drives of their great houses, many of which have grown into elder statesmen more than 200 years old.

It’s the time of year when juvenile owls are dispersing and claiming their own territories, which accounts for their vocal activity. Shakespeare wrote of their calls in his play, Love’s Labour’s Lost: “Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whoo! Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! A merry note!”

He didn’t get his ornithology quite right because he thought he was describing the calls of both male and female tawnies. In fact, it’s only the males that make the spectral, quavering hoot that makes you want to pull the bedclothes over your head, but both males and females make the shrill kee-wick contact call and they are never uttered together by the same bird.

It seemed all the young tawnies in the district had the same idea and their calls carried considerable distances on the still night air. There has always seemed a healthy population of tawny owls in this part of the north-east, indicating a healthy population of field mice, voles and other small mammals that form their diet. So it’s surprising to find that their RSPB conservation status has fallen from green to amber, meaning their numbers have declined in recent years

Moth at the window

I’ve walked my dogs last thing at night ever since I acquired my first own dog – the infamous hen-killing Molly – more than 55 years ago. Moths and other night flying insects would be banging into my head, attracted by the torchlight. Nowadays, I hardly see any.

I went to investigate when I heard a large moth which had found its way into the house, attracted by the lights, flittering all over the window in its efforts to get out. I deftly caught it in a glass to see if I could identify it and it went berserk, blattering round the glass in its efforts to escape. Looking up my butterfly and moth book, I think it may have been a Common Footman,

but as it wouldn’t settle, I can’t be sure. I opened the back door and watched it fly off into the night.

The butterfly season seems to have been shorter than usual. We’ve had visits from Small Whites, Painted Ladies, Peacocks and Small Tortoiseshells feeding mainly on the blue and white buddleia, but it’s given us endless pleasure watching them in the garden. I find butterflies fascinating. Their flight seems so haphazard when in reality it’s part of their natural defence mechanism to confuse hungry predators.

Pickaxe killer

Walking with Inka up the burn which gives its name to the Burn House, near Edzell, there was a rush of wings and a heron rose from the cover of reeds where it was hunting for tasty young frogs or maybe a water vole. It flew only about 20 yards and landed in the stream again. This was strange, as herons are notoriously wary birds.

I cautiously walked nearer and saw it was a young bird which hadn’t yet lostt all its juvenile plumage.

A rabbit bolted out of the undergrowth ahead of me and Inka pushed out another which splashed noisily across the shallow stream. The young heron seemed unfazed by all the activity.

We stood gazing at each other and I could clearly see the yellow iris in its eyes. With their battleship-grey plumage, it’s no surprise they are known as grey herons. A heron is a long bird with long greenish-brown legs, long neck and pickaxe beak, long and straight and powerful to strike at its prey.

I don’t imagine I’ll get as close to a heron again. For five minutes or so my heron and I held a silent conversation then I called Inka to heel and left my heron to his hunting, taking the memory of a chance encounter with me.

It’s only the males that make the spectral, quavering hoot that makes you want to pull the bedclothes over your head

Picture: Shutterstock. The persistent hooting of a tawny owl from a nearby beech tree served as a very early wake-up call for Angus.