Britain's most widespread bird is also the most elusive — spotting it is one of ornithology’s great joys

The long-eared owl breeds from Kent to northern Scotland; it is our most widespread bird, yet the one that the fewest of us have knowingly seen (or even heard). A key factor in this challenge is the owl’s status as the most exclusively nocturnal of all our night birds: it cherishes darkness more than other owls, but also favours the heavy shadow of dense tree cover. Its song is a low, flat, monotonous hoot, but even this diagnostic sound is seldom heard until long after dark.

If seen well, a long-eared owl is unmistakable, with its warm, rusty-brown upperparts cross-hatched with dark streaks and a distinctive upright, slender posture. It also has a further habit, when alarmed, of ‘sucking’ in its plumage until the body looks like nothing more than a stick. A real giveaway to its identity is its two buff-fringed head plumes that resemble ‘ears’, but actually have no link to the owl’s hearing. Best of all are the huge eyes, their piercing orange hue apparent as the bird glares disdainfully down on any human intruder.

There are only about 1,800 pairs in Britain and one reason for their irregular distribution may be the competition with the more widespread and abundant tawny owl. The latter is considerably bigger than the long-eared owl, weighing almost twice as much, and will on occasions predate its smaller relative. The potential for competition between the two possibly explains the situation in Ireland, where tawny owls are absent. Long-eared owls, meanwhile, are more numerous there and on one-third of the land area they inhabit in the UK.

The long-eared owl likes dense tree cover in which to nest, although it does not build structures of its own — preferring to take over abandoned platforms made by crows or squirrels. It will also leave trees to hunt over adjacent pasture and rough moorland.

There is a strong population in the Pennines and one of the best ways to encounter them is to wait for dusk in late June. By then, their young are almost fledged and in early evening begin a barrage of reedy calls akin to the sound produced by blowing on a stem of grass placed between two thumbs. It is remarkably far-carrying and has an insistent, pleading quality. In response, the adults begin hunting, where their exquisite aerial abilities are in full play. They have longer wings than barn owls and the action is languid, elegant, soundless. During one 30-minute spell, I saw two parents catch five voles in succession and then return to the pine-plantation nest-site, where the begging sounds of the young were briefly quelled.

Long-eared owls might be challenging to observe, but there is a time when they are easier to find. During October and November, large numbers vacate more northerly latitudes in Continental Europe, some crossing the North Sea to Britain. These immigrant owls can be seen hunting by day over the Wash in Norfolk and Lincolnshire and over marshes along the east coast in Yorkshire, Suffolk and Essex. Another feature of the wintering birds is that they sometimes gather in communal roosts, occasionally in double figures.

It is wonderful to peer into a dense hawthorn bush and find several owls, all hunched and asleep, eyes clamped against the intruding day-light. Yet imagine seeing 350 long-eared owls together like this. Those numbers are common-place in the Serbian town of Kikinda, famous as the long-eared owl capital of the world. During my visit, there were 27 birds arrayed across a single bare tree outside the town’s bank; next to a nearby school, there were another 30.

The purpose of these roosts is something of a mystery, although many such winter congregations are thought to serve as information centres, allowing birds that have not fed successfully to follow more replete neighbours out to profitable hunting areas. By dawn, all the owls had returned to the trees in the centre of town to sleep. One insight into the life of small rodents in this part of northern Serbia came when we stood beneath the owls and made squeaking noises like those of a mouse. As if a switch had been flicked, scores of staring orange eyes flared open all at once.

This feature originally appeared in the February 11, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.