Rachel Seifert, documentary filmmaker and environmental journalist for Channel 4 News, on the moment nature caught her and three young children off guard
Rachel Seifert is a documentary filmmaker and journalist who makes environmental films for Channel 4 News. She and her young family moved out of London in Covid lockdown and are now very happily settled in the countryside near Bishop’s Stortford. She is also an avid birdwatcher and nature lover. Mindful of the fact that Jono Forgham has now flown his Little Hadham nest for Norfolk, she wanted to write something for the Indie in the spirit of his Nature Notes column...
I’ve spent the last few weeks wandering around the local lanes, thinking about what to write about for this column. Watching as the odd cracks begin to show in the hard winter coat and the icy whiteness starts to break to let in those much hoped for glimpses of light and warmth and sunshine, bringing some much-needed inspiration to the year.
Clumps of snowdrops nod their sleepy heads in acknowledgement of an awakening, a few primroses shyly start to show their faces in an attempt to catch the odd ray, and the golden catkins on the still bare branches wag their tails in anticipation.
The robins herald in this new beginning at the top of their voices, the long-tailed tits chatter away with the latest gossip (no doubt on the state of the local traffic) and the rooks fall quiet for once as they fill their beaks with twigs, reminding us all of the busyness that spring brings.
We love the weather here: talking about it, writing about it, mostly complaining about it. But what England does exceptionally well is the seasons.
Every year, going back for as long as we can remember, nature has had the same rituals, the same patterns, the same rhythms, reminiscent of all the years gone by. Each season distinct and bringing with it its own calendar of natural events. Although, it must be said, these long baked-in natural traditions are being fast altered by the changing climate, messing up the natural state of things and causing confusion for our natural world.
Spring is reportedly the fastest-warming season in the UK and on average the signs of it are advancing ever earlier. This has an effect, of course, on nature’s symbiotic relationships, pushing the natural pattern out of sync. Alongside this, due to the losses in abundance of our wildlife, we all have a lower baseline of nature from which to reflect back upon.
Despite what we have thrown at it, nature still, for the moment, has these same signs, these clues of the changing seasons that give us hope of the spring coming after the long winter, that the days are getting warmer and lighter, and the dark cold frosty days are slowing fading. The serendipitous sunshine recently has even brought out a few odd bees solitarily buzzing around.
All of this has provided much inspiration and dappled rays of hope which I had begun to write about, when, in amongst all this natural awakening and seasonal goings-on, something captured my attention out of the blue – and in a timely, and frankly very helpful, manner, a muse literally flew in front of me when I was least expecting it.
It was one of those rare moments where time felt as if it stood still. And the world around me fell eerily silent.
Which is somewhat ridiculous, given I was sat at the kitchen table, piled high with various breakfast items in the middle of half term. The kids were screaming and shouting, jumping up and down. Balls were being thrown around and pens and paper being pulled out of drawers. Then, all of a sudden, my littlest one points out the window and shouts. And, looking out from this scene of chaos, abruptly stunned everyone into an unnatural silence and wonder...
I didn’t grab my binoculars. I didn’t grab my camera. I just sat staring with the kids, watching and absorbing the moment – frozen to the spot as a larger-than-life barn owl glided past the window.
As it flew around and around, we followed it from inside the house, running upstairs to see it, running from bedroom to bedroom, from window to window. After a somewhat surreal few minutes, it finally floated down, as lightly as a feather, and sat in the field.
We opened the window to break the barrier between us. It was sat there, just staring directly at us. Looking up at us. Staring right into our inner beings. We could feel the stare. Thinking quite who knows what. But the connection was made. Between human and wild. And the look in its eyes pierced through for what seemed like forever.
The juxtaposition between the chaos inside the house and the calm outside. There was an overwhelming feeling of utter and total elation which was followed quickly by the humble and stark reminder of our place in this world. It flew off, its ethereal glow, its graceful glide silencing the world around it, including three unruly children utterly entranced by this being.
I don’t know how many hours I have sat watching and waiting patiently trying to see owls in the wild, but it is a lot. And here, in a totally unexpected moment, in such an unnatural manner whilst sat at home near Bishop’s Stortford, surrounded by the chaos of a half-term breakfast, nature caught us off guard, slapped us across the face and gave us one of the world’s greatest sights – a barn owl out hunting in the frost of the early morning with the sun desperately pushing through behind.
