L Gerrard Notes

I was beginning to think the barn owl was a phantom of local folklore. We had made the pilgrimage to Oare so many times that the bird felt less like wildlife and more like a cryptid. The same villager who told us of the marsh witch told us of the time he saw a pale ghost gliding over the reeds, hunting in complete silence. But after hours of watching the sky bruise and darken, we always headed home still unsure of the bird’s existence. Another failed mission. Yet each defeat only deepened the obsession.

A month later, the hunt resumed. Friends joined us this time, not birders but infected by our fixation. When we arrived, I made a detour to the witch’s well. The ice-cold water felt as if it had come from another place. It was the clearest water I’ve ever tasted. I closed my eyes and splashed my face, hoping the old waters would finally tip our luck.

For an hour, the evening was kind. The air was still, the sky clear. We paused for cider and sandwiches, but the peace was short-lived. Dark clouds tumbled over the horizon, bringing sharp, distant lightning. Hope vanished “At least we had a good walk,” I told myself, taking solace in having seen the other small miracles the marsh has to offer. Oyster catchers probing the mud, a kestrel suspended in mid-air, sleeping egrets decorating the reed edge.

Then the sky fractured. The storm swept wide, drenching the countryside. Yet it left the wetland untouched. Our path was purposely lit from the pink and orange sky above. “One more lap?”

We walked in silence. Reed warblers offered their final songs before hunkering down for the night. My friends paused over a late-blooming flower, but I couldn’t look down. I barely blinked, scanning the treeline for a silhouette soaring against the dusk. I was looking in the wrong place.

Not on the horizon, but just meters down the trail, a pale shape unspooled from behind a dense thicket. “What’s that?” I whispered. The others turned just as the phantom unfurled its wings. It did not fly; it drifted, defying the heavy rules of gravity. It banked over the wetlands in pure silence before coming to a standstill in midair, dangling its yellow talons over the grass.

Before we could catch our breath, a second owl, a female, rose from the reeds to meet him. They carved quiet circles in the twilight, a sacred dance performance gifted to four quiet onlookers. The barn owl was the 143rd bird on my life list, but in that fading light, it felt less like another sighting to add to the tally, and more like an offering from an unknown magic.