Bird Watching

I never cared about birds until I became a farmer. Then I wanted to learn about all the flora and fauna on our 40 acres in Folles, France. What are those trees, those ferns, those bees, those beetles, those birds?

It started with swallows. There were nests made of mud in the rafters of a small barn adjacent to the house, where I ended up parking the quad. I walked in one day to find them occupied by barn swallows, who ultimately returned each year to brood two batches of baby birds in a row. The parents were unfazed by our presence—even by the rumble of the quad as I pulled in and out of the garage. We’d sit in the front yard and watch them scuttle under the wooden barn door, or participate in “flight school” as 10-or-so young birds swooped and dove in close proximity.

The glass wall of our living room provided a stunning view of the property: the fountain, the hazel tree, the fields out front. It also posed a challenge for the swallows in training and they’d occasionally knock into it—not so hard that they stunned themselves; they’d just clip it. But the sudden noise always sent our terrier scurrying for cover. He was terrified of those tiny birds!

Generation after generation, we welcomed the barn swallows’ antics along with their hearty appetite for gnats and mosquitos. It was always sad to see them go, but we knew they’d be back the following spring.

Twice a year the grus (cranes) migrated overhead, their loud bugling and vast flocks heading to and from Scandinavia and Spain. They’re the largest birds in Europe, with a wingspan of more than six feet. “There go the grus,” we’d say. They never impacted us but they always marked the passage of time, an integral part of life in the commune of Les Gouttes.

As time passed, more birds came to the farm. We had a great egret with a huge nest in an oak tree near the lake. We’d see it circling above the water, flying down intermittently for its prey. Less frequently, we’d hear a cuckoo or watch a great spotted woodpecker searching for insects in the linden tree. For a while, we even had a hoopoe drinking from our fountain. Magpies stole guinea fowl eggs and pecked holes in duck eggs; house sparrows hovered in a bush near the chicken feeder, waiting for their turn; blue tits (which actually have yellow chests) flitted about; a golden oriole darted back and forth between various fruit trees; crows cawed, blackbirds chuk-chuked, and robins tuk-tukked.

The pre-farmer me may not have noticed, but the farmer wanted to know which species were visiting our land and what that said about it. The more birds, the better, because it served as an indication that our farming methods were enhancing the ecosystem, bringing more biodiversity to our little portion of the planet.

In our last year on the farm, small flocks of something started following our cattle. They were very sensitive to the presence of humans and I never got close enough to see what they were. My best guess is that they were brown-headed cowbirds, and their presence felt like a triumph.

I did my best to reduce the fly and tick pressure on my herd: I moved our cows frequently, brushed them with oil, and added garlic to their free-choice salt. It takes about three weeks for a fly egg to develop into an adult; by the time that happened, my cows were in a completely different area of the farm. But flies can travel miles to find a host, so it wasn’t very difficult for them to follow our herd to its new paddock.

I like to think the birds heard from other birds that the flies at our farm were organic. “Very tasty flies over here in Les Gouttes! No chemicals! Come get your fill!” I can’t say I noticed a big difference in fly pressure that season, but I do wonder how things may have evolved if we’d continued farming there. Would more cowbirds have come? Who else might have joined in the fight?

During our first summer on the farm, I discovered a fledgling Little Owl huddled on the floor of our main barn. I set up a brooder and left the owlet there overnight, with the top open in case the mama returned. But the next morning, HooHoo (as he came to be called) was still there.

I fed him ground beef dipped in water, and he lived in the bottom half of a dog crate. On sunny days, I’d bring him outside and let him spend some time in the grass. After about a month, HooHoo could fly well, and I knew it was time to set him free. I moved his crate into a three-sided shed next to the house and hoped he wouldn’t be eaten by predators. The first morning I went to check on him after the move, the crate was empty. But my heart filled with joy when I screeched, and he emerged from his hiding place in the shed, then flew over and ate from my hand. Little HooHoo had survived his first night, and he was still okay with me. He was still choosing to associate with me.

We continued this ritual, twice a day at dawn and dusk, for a couple of weeks before HooHoo stopped coming. I like to think he went on to catch his own prey and start his own family. I like to think he’s the Little Owl who took up residence in our big barn, the Little Owl I saw perched upon a fence post behind the shed shortly before we left Folles. I like to think he’s still there now, bringing future generations of Little Owls to Les Gouttes.

Donna Myers is a mom and writing consultant whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Ecological Citizen, The Milk House, The 2024 Northwind Treasury, and elsewhere. She has a master's in writing and is currently completing a memoir about the four years her family spent raising poultry and Bretonne Pie Noir cattle in the Haute-Vienne department of France. You can find her on LinkedIn at https://www.linkedin.com/in/donna-myers-writing-consultant.