Opinion: Ghostly presence turns out to be flying visitor

When thumps and bumps could be heard from the farmhouse landing at 4.55am, it presented a mystery. It was at the end of the long hot spell, so was already getting light.

I did wonder what Hazel was up to in the east wing of Flindt Towers (and it turned out that she was half awake, too, wondering what I was up to in the west wing).

When you live in a house as old as this, you accept that ghostly night-time visitors are part of the privilege. And we are very lucky that whatever mysterious entity it is that decides to make itself known to us as we sleep is benign and harmless.

A whisper in the ear or a gentle shake of the shoulder is startling, but nothing more than that. I’ve lost count of the guests over the decades who arrive at breakfast – especially if they’ve been in the oldest bedroom – keen but slightly embarrassed to tell of their nocturnal experiences.

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I found it hard to believe that our spiritual lodger had resorted to more than just a bedroom lurk, so rolled over and went back to my sweaty snoozing.

In a previous life, of course, I’d have leapt out of bed and done some combine refuelling and greasing. The quicker those jobs were out of the way, the better. These days, bed beckons. 

When I crossed the landing for the inevitable early pee, the landing was in a bit of a mess. Old stuffed toys had been dislodged from their shelf on the bookcase, where they sit awaiting the call back into action at some stage – one hopes.

It was even more chaotic in the bathroom. All the age-related creams and lotions were strewn across the floor and in the bath. And when you get to my age (65 yesterday, thanks for asking) you have to have all the right lotions in the right places ready for application to the right body part. Mistakes are not an option (see: Deep Heat and piles).

I sauntered back to the landing. Something odd had been going on. And, even odder, I knew damn well that, at that moment, I was being watched. A shiver-up-the-spine feeling.

Just as I was thinking we might be summoning the vicar to deal with a new and more energetic guest spirit, something caught my eye in the landing window. A barn owl was perched on the inner sill, glaring at me with a cold, hard fury that suggested he’d had just about enough of trying to work out an escape route. Getting in through a wide-open window had been easy.

By now, Hazel had joined me on the landing, and we carefully guided it away from the non-opening window, silently back down the landing and into a bedrooms, where it conveniently got wedged behind the double glazing.

I reached carefully past it and opened a window. With one last look of complete contempt, it set off across the yard to where it has been nesting all summer.

I would tell you where it went, but we’d be overrun with lanyard-wearing nature experts, catching it and weighing it and ringing it and tagging it.

The poor thing spent the best part of a night crashing through my extensive medicine supply and mistaking a furry toy for prey; it has suffered enough. Let’s leave it be.