The Major is plodding ahead of me and I follow him, grateful that I am not carrying his gigantic, army issue sack, crammed with coal. My own rucksack is heavy enough as it shifts uncomfortably on my back, ten kilograms of coal pushing into my spine. The track into the bothy has been level so far but ahead I can see it climbing steeply until it disappears into the mist high on the hill. It is autumn in the Monadhliath hills, pronounced as close as this Liverpudlian can get it, Monalea. The landscape is brown and still around us, bracing itself for the oncoming winter. Already splashes of white, high on the mountains, show that the season of ice and snow has touched the high tops.
We are approaching a twenty-foot-stack of logs, that I always use as a resting point before beginning the grinding ascent to the bothy. There is a flash of movement high on the stack and a shape, as quiet as a falling snow flake, takes to the air only a few feet from us.

“Owl!” I yell. The Major wheels round, staggering under his oversized load of coal. Together we watch as the creature sweeps silently across the landscape, gliding into the stillness, moving through the unruffled air as if it were liquid glass. This close we can see every detail of the bird, from its mottled brown and green camouflaged wings to the white parabola of its face.

“Barn Owl” the Major announces, as we stare in wonder at the beauty, grace and perfection of this night dweller as it rises slowly away giving us a tantalising glimpse of wildness. The Major has a greater knowledge of wild birds than I. At that moment I had identified an owl but was ignorant of its species but the Major knew instantly what it was. This late in the year the daylight hours are short and fleeting in the Highlands and the owl must have been heading off in the fading light to make the most of its opportunity to hunt.

We were both delighted to have seen such a creature and chatted excitedly about how lucky we had been until the Major stooped to examine something hidden in the base of the log pile. “There’s a trap here,” he declared, pointing out a wire mesh box about the size of a house brick. He examined it more closely, “It’s not set but it’s there for stoats, pine marten and the like. No danger to the Barn Owl.”

I looked down in astonishment at the brutal piece of metal. “Why would anyone want to kill them?”
“This is Grouse more,” the Major explained with obvious distaste. “The folk here will kill anything that might predate on the grouse. Only problem is, the more predators you kill the more Grouse there are and the more attractive it is to Eagles, Hen Harriers, Red Kites and the like. It’s a vicious cycle, that leaves places like this as wildlife deserts. We were lucky to see that Barn Owl.”

Learn more about Red Grouse moors here
Two weeks later he and I are sitting beside a bothy fire in a bothy on the remote Morven peninsular, sharing a dram with another traveller and recounting our Barn Owl story. The ginger haired man we are talking to leans forward and pokes the fire into life. “Of course, there used to be a Barn Owl in the barn near here, but it somehow got into the bothy and couldn’t get out. A mate of mine found it in here dead.”
It occurs to me that perhaps I could do something to bring Barn Owls back to the area. What a wonderful thing it would be to see a creature like that cutting through the night sky and know that you played some part in making its survival possible. I decided that, if it was possible to build a Barn Owl nesting box and help a family of Barn Owls to find a home it would be a worthwhile project.

I download plans for a Barn Owl nesting box from the Barn Owl trust website.
My old climbing partner, Charlie, sits watching me working, the smoke from the evil cheroot clenched between his jaws drifting into my eyes as I worked way at the pile of plywood and wood in his garage workshop. Whilst not touching the wood with his own fair hands he watches me work, smoking and offering the occasional piece of advice as I sweat away. In any woodwork project there I always a moment when the pile of wood you have been working away suddenly transforms from a jumble of sticks and becomes “something.”

I step back and admire my work. “There look at that, what a beauty, Charlie.” Indeed, the box is impressive, probably the biggest nesting box of any British bird it stands over two feet high and almost the same in depth. With a little balcony at the front so fledglings can exercise their wings.
Charlie takes a deep lung full of smoke and thoughtfully blows it out a great acrid cloud. “It’s a fine box so it is. It’s just a pity…”
“What’s, just a pity?”
“The balcony isn’t level.”

As soon as he says it, I can see what he means, the exercise balcony is at a slight angle. Two minutes with a screw driver and the problem is rectified. I doubt that Thomas Chippendale, the cabinet maker, not the male stripper, would have much to worry about but, as far as I know, Barn Owls are not overly judgemental about joinery.
Charlie congratulates me on getting the balcony level. “That would have bothered me too.” Take one look at the man leaning on the owl box and ask yourself, “Does he look like someone who would worry about how level an owl box is?”
I go back to the Barn Owl trust’s website and I am worried by the fact that the position I must put box in will be considerably less than the 3 meters off the ground recommended by the Trust. I contacted Rick Lockwood the Conservation Officer with the Barn Owl Trust who was incredibly helpful and gave me lots of great advice about locating the box. I was worried that the lack of height off the floor might leave the box vulnerable to attack from Pine Martens or even Wild Cat, which are about in the area.
Rick reassured me. “I think the location looks perfect if that upper entrance faces onto open countryside. The height of the building should compensate for the lack of height off the floor.”
So now I have the all clear. There can be no guarantees in nature and, even though I plan to make it as difficult as I can for predators to get into the box if they do that is only nature taking its course. As my old dad used to say, “Nature is red in tooth and claw.”
All I have to do now is get the nesting box into the barn. That’s easier said than done as Major and I will have to carry the damn thing several miles through the hills of Morvern. That, as they say, will be another story.
Come back and see how we get on.