Owl Holes.


Today was split evenly between playing golf and holding owls. It must have been a Wednesday.

Massive owl (right).

The bird handling came first, as you’d expect. The brochure described it as an ‘Encounter With Owls’, which made it sound a little menacing; would they swoop at me down a dark alley? I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had, the nocturnal rotating-headed bastards.

(Though they can actually only turn their heads 270 degrees – ha: “only” – and they’re not all nocturnal. Can I start again?)

Tiny owls make me smile.

My encounter was great. I had expected to see a couple of owls at most, à la a junior-school-barn-owl visit (was mine the only school to do this?), but there were nine or ten. It cost just £10, and a pound a bird is not to be sniffed at. They came in all shapes, sizes and breeds - the biggest being an eagle owl, which only the adults got to hold; the experience would have been tarnished if he'd flown off with a toddler. We all had the chance to hold the smallest one though (the appropriately-named little owl) plus a variety of measurements in-between. I hope they're stored babushka style.

A small, small owl.
 
The session ended with all willing volunteers (including myself) standing in a line with our gloved hands held out, catching one bird after the next. At one point I ended up with a pair of owls in a single hand, which was a breach of the rules; call me the owl whisperer.

After lunch, we swapped birds of prey for adventure golf (the politically correct version of the ‘crazy game’ from days of yore.) While it wasn’t particularly adventurous, I did enjoy it. Somehow, I didn’t embarrass myself. The final score was a photo finish. Is there such a thing as psychotic swingball? 

A serious business.

 

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