Give up your owl sins

We had found the quaintest, most sequestered place

available last-minute on Airbnb: a revamped shepherd’s hut on the back of someone’s farm, and a five-hour drive away. The toilet was outside; birds perched on the windowsill; there was a DVD player and a copy of Along Came Polly

— this was truly back to nature. Exactly what I needed.

Winding our way through sweet country roads, we were forced to a stop. In the middle of the road there was a small owl, lit by the waxing moon. We sat and marvelled at this small country miracle: the white tufty breast, the moon that never looked so bright and dramatic in the polluted city.

After what felt like a respectful time, we revved the engine. It didn’t budge. We edged forward. Still it stood, staring impassively. Of course, we thought, it’s hurt! All my childhood dreams were coming true, I was about to rescue an owl baby! We scrambled around looking for a towel to swaddle this poor creature. But when Bae got close, it flew away on perfectly functional wings and landed 20 metres ahead, right in the middle of the road.

We laughed at his charming folly. But once again, the owl could not be moved from our path. Our smiles faded. It wasn’t even a baby. By the fifth time Bae stopped and got out to coax the owl on, there was a small queue behind us. He strolled to the car behind us to explain the hold-up, as I shrank, mortified, into my seat, willing it to consume me. I imagined them, locals, fuming about the millennial city arseholes blocking the roads, gentrifying the pubs. Was I being a snowflake for refusing to drive over an owl? I’ve been made fun of for less. In that moment, with the full force of a lifetime of people-pleasing and social pressure, I think I would have mowed that little fucker down.

Five minutes later, we were careening down that country road, leaning on the horn, chasing a tawny owl, shouting, “Keep fucking flying”. Take me back, city. All is forgiven.