It had all seemed such a good idea when I suggested it. The major and I were sat before the bothy fire and he was puffing contentedly on his pipe when I said, “Let’s make a Barn Owl nesting box and put it up in the old barn.’

The major blew a large smoke ring and we both watched it drift towards the fire as he contemplated the suggestion. The Major never rushes into anything and he took several pulls at his pipe while the cogs in his mind turned. Eventually, “Excellent idea, but how would we get it all those miles up the track into the barn?”
“We could pull it in on the old cart,” I answered enthusiastically. “It’ll be easy, what could go wrong?”
The wheel of the cart jams behind a boulder for the thousandth time. Major heaves at the front, I push from the back as hard as I can. The cart won’t move. We are both sweating and gasping. We heave again, this time the cart groans like an old man rising from a deck chair on a Sunday afternoon and lurches forward. We are hauling a two-foot square barn owl box, four meters of timber fixings, a drill, some screws and a large quantity of tins of beer in an old hand cart. It’s taken us two hours, two gallons of sweat, and a great deal of swearing and still the barn isn’t in sight.

I have lots of ideas and this is one of them. I am afflicted by ideas, they are a kind of curse. They pop into my head all the time. Like, “I could walk the Pennine Way again” or “I bet prunes in curry would be good, (Don’t bother, they’re not)”
Once, while Winter hillwalking, looking down a steep snow slope, an idea came into my head like a voice from a mischievous demon. I yelled down to my mate Joe, who was about thirty feet below me. “I could do a standing glissade (like skiing without skis) down this gully.” And it turned out I could, or at least for the first 20 feet I could. After that point I had gathered so much speed the “standing glissade” turned into a “life threating plummet.” As I gathered momentum my arms and legs swung about wildly and Joe watched, with an expression of puzzled curiosity, as I hurtled past him at about 60 miles an hour. I think he was puzzled as to why I had hurled myself down the slope and curious to see where I would end up.
I saw the boulder coming
The world turned wedding cake white except for one large black rock that was heading right towards me. I rationalised that I was moving and not the rock but, no matter how I squirmed about, it just kept coming right at me. I’d always thought that colliding with part of a mountain at high speed was something best avoided. It turned out I was right. My left knee took most of the impact and swelled up, like a birthday party balloon, to three times its normal size. The walk down the hill was slow and painful.

By now I should treat all my ideas with caution, but I still haven’t learned and frequently land with both feet in something that resembles chocolate mousse but doesn’t smell like it. In terms of nest box building, I’ve started at the top. The Barn owl box is colossal. A sort of bird box palace. It even has its own balcony so that the fledgling owls can exercise their wings before heading off to spend their lives terrorizing voles. The Major turns to me, sweat running down his forehead, and I can tell he’s wondering how the hell I talked him into this. I smile meekly, hoping he’ll have forgotten the pain after we drink a few of the beers that are riding alongside the Owl Box in the cart.
It’s then that I see a flicker of movement high on the hill behind us. I can see a bird of prey gliding just below the horizon.
“What’s that?”
The major looks up and instantly forgets the suffering, reaching for his quick draw binoculars. “Must be an Eagle.”

I’m not very good and identifying birds but I know this is no Eagle. “It’s not an Eagle.
The Major squints through his binoculars. “It’s a Hen Harrier!”
He thrusts the binoculars at me. “A female Hen Harrier.” I’m often amazed at the Major’s ornithological knowledge. That he can identify the bird at this distance, perhaps 500 metres is impressive, that he can sex it is mind blowing. Then the Major explains that the male and female hen Harrier have very different plumage, the male being much lighter than the female.

Fortunately, the excitement of seeing the Harrier, one of Britain’s rarest birds, makes us forget the toil of hauling the Barn owl box and we are soon at the barn. Hen harriers are perhaps the most persecuted of all our birds of prey. In England only one or two breeding pairs survive whilst there are 400 in Scotland. On grouse moors they are shot, trapped and poisoned in an illegal practice that is widespread. Happily, not all Highland estates follow this barbaric practice so in some areas they flourish although overall numbers are declining.  Find out more about Hen Harrier persecution here
At last the box is in place in the barn. There are Pine Marten in the area so, to give our owls some protection, we place bird spikes around the box to try and keep them away. I’m not too sure about the ethics of that as, in nature, Pine Marten must make a living too, so deterring them may not keep the playing field even.
So now our Barn Owl Box sits waiting for a passing owl to take up residence. It would be amazing to see an owl family raise chicks in a box I made myself and one that Major and I dragged in up miles of track. If that happens it will all have been worth it.

If you have enjoyed this post you might like my book Bothy Tales

 

 
NOW WE WAIT
I’LL BRING YOU MORE NEWS IF/WHEN OUR BOX HAS OCCUPANTS.

If you want to build your own box visit The Barn Owl Trust where there are plans and loads of helpful advice on where to locate it.