Last Friday was the latter, I found myself at Cressing Temple Barns in Essex, wandering between medieval timbers and autumn leaves, lens trained on creatures that seem half-myth, half-bird – owls and an eagle, their gaze as sharp as the glass we were carrying.
Photographing the Eurasian Eagle Owl
The Eurasian Eagle Owl was the first to stop me in my tracks. Perched high, feathers flowing like a cloak, it looked down with those burning orange eyes. You don’t just look at an owl; you’re measured by it. Every frame felt like a negotiation – my patience in exchange for a tilt of its head or the faint suggestion of movement in its talons.
Barn Owls in the Barns
Later, the barn owls took centre stage. Inside the dim barns, shafts of light cut through the darkness, and suddenly their faces glowed, heart-shaped and otherworldly. One, with a darker mask than I’d seen before, seemed to shift moods every time it moved – mysterious, then vulnerable, then utterly regal. These are the moments when you forget the camera settings for a second and just breathe, grateful for the encounter.
Photographers in the Wild
Workshops are never just about the subject. Standing among a small group of fellow photographers, I felt the familiar camaraderie of shared obsession. Big lenses, small lenses, bridge cameras – it didn’t matter. We all leaned forward at the same time, all held our breath, waiting for that perfect glance. Something is grounded in that, a reminder that photography is both solitary and communal.
The Presence of a Golden Eagle
And then came the golden eagle. Even in stillness, it radiated power. Every detail – the curve of the beak, the coiled strength in its legs – carried authority. Looking at it through the lens, I was struck by how different the experience is compared with seeing one on television or even in the wild at a distance. Here, close enough to count the feathers, you feel small. Not diminished, but reminded of scale – of where we fit in the grander scheme.
Learning by Looking
The day wasn’t about lectures or rigid instruction. Daniel Bridge, who led the workshop with the Eden Falconry team, gave just enough guidance to keep us focused while leaving space for our own instincts. I found myself shifting between technical headspace – shutter speeds for a wingbeat, aperture for depth in a portrait – and that more intuitive mode where you simply watch. Photography, at its best, is about both.
Reflections
By the time the light softened into late afternoon, my memory cards were filling. Still, I realised it wasn’t the photos I was thinking about. It was the rhythm of the day: the pauses, the watching, the quiet moments with creatures that usually remain hidden. Retirement gives me the time to lean into these experiences, to learn more slowly, more deeply, and to find joy in things I might once have rushed past.
The owls, with their unblinking patience, are good tutors for that.
