Stories · from · the · Stone · Caravan

I have a nicely impressive set of cuts on my wrist from the talons of a startled barn owl.

I was at a supper party last night, a farmers' fundraiser for the local agricultural show; cheese, bread, wine and a raffle, and one of the locals brought his owl along. Naturally enough it attracted a lot of attention...

I stayed a few feet back, wine glass in hand. Owl are lovely things, but don't seem to get any particular gratification from being stroked and chucked under the chin, so I didn't feel any need to do so. They are patient beast; this one, 13 months old, had been raised from the egg submitted to the many caresses with only a slightly harassed look. Occasionally it eyed the petting hands as if were so many plump white mice, nicely crunchy and only just out of reach.

At some point it all got to much for Wol, and he launched himself into the air, talons extended, jesses slipping - and landed on my wrist, just abaft the glass.

I felt nothing but the lightest brush of a claw before he had been scooped up again, back on the handlers hand.

But my arm felt suddenly wet. I looked down. Blood was running freely over my hand.
Those talons are like the razor of a Brighton Racetrack thug - bright, fast and very very fast.

A horsefly bite is more painful - but an owl strike is pretty spectacular.