I can hear hooting. It’s not long after 9 in the evening. I’ve come through to make my bed and put the leccy blanket on.
Love it. Never missed one night of it all year, when – never mind your heatwaves – the temperature never rose above 18 or 19 degrees here.
As I’m making the bed – i.e. trying to figure which way the duvet goes – I glance out the window and see a gorgeous moonglade.
The magic of the moonglade
You’ll recall I mentioned this word before: it’s the wavy line of moonlight on the water that skims across the waves straight towards you. Magical.
I grab my mobile phone, which serves as my camera these days, though I know night pictures rarely come out.
But I give it a go and, as I’m doing so, I hear the owl: no more eerie sound than this in the darkness. So penetrating. So right. So much the soundtrack to a moonlit night.
Also, as you may recall, I’m a collector of coincidences and had just received an email earlier confirming that a model of an ancient Greek owl I’d ordered from the British Museum had been dispatched. Spooky!
I film on the phone, not hoping for a decent picture but to capture yon hooting on audio.
I wonder why the beastie does it. Perhaps he’s telling the local rodents: “Here I am. Sporting chance. Best do a runner.”
But he sounds kinda plaintive, a bit “What a life, eh?”
And there he is…
Suddenly, I see him, not a white shape as I’d expected, but a dark shadow floating languidly across my rooftop.
I dare says he’s hungry. Better not touch my wee garden birds or he’ll get hunted. Last few evenings, at dusk in the garden, a few birds have shared my company. Two thrushes. A robin.
They fly off only when I get really close. But, before that, they have the measure of me: “Poor Rab. Cannae see a thing in the mirk.”
They think I’m harmless which, taken in the round, is pretty accurate.
Don’t know what the owl thinks. The bats at dusk put on a show for me. They appreciate that, despite some local pressure, I’ve kept my trees.
And I’ve let “weeds” such as ragwort and hogweed survive, as they’re decent laddies for insects to pollinate. All part of life’s rich tapestry.
Of course, it could be clouds of midges above my head that are attracting the bats, rather than my magnetic personality or hair gel.
They whizz by closely, squeaking: “Haw, it’s Rab. Let’s gie him a buzz!”
These autumn nights
Autumn nights are the most magical. At this time, the stars return. Later on in the season, around November, is the best time to see the Northern Lights, if you’re going to see them at all, which I don’t expect to do here but which I did when I lived much further north.
How fondly I recall the time I came out of my little remote wooden house at midnight and found the whole sky above me dancing in a plethora of colours.
Not just a few shimmering pale green curtains. The complete Thor’s Disco.
Truly awesome. Made me feel very humble. As, in their own way, do the bats, the owl and the moonglade.
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