Connection to the natural world and its capacity for solace permeate Atkin’s lyrical memoir, The Company of Owls, where in her state of chronic illness, she feels “more kinship with owls than other humans” (43). Poet, memoirist, and academic, Atkin interweaves her personal history and the history of local owl breeds with intimate field notes from her owl encounters. She tracks them across the seasons with a naturalist’s sensibility, imbued with reverence for the natural habitats of England’s Lake District. Isolation amplifies longing for the creatures she seeks, coexisting just out of reach, as she acknowledges “there are few things more isolating than feeling alone when you are not alone. Feeling apart when you are together” (43). Though Atkin’s focus is often outward on the owls’ behaviors, their profound effect on her and her passion for their preservation hold the most impact for the reader.
The narrative suggests a progression in which Atkin does not merely observe the owls but actively pursues them, driven by hope for a sighting. Her commitment despite her physical limitations is inspiring, at times compelling her to trek Cumbria’s desolate terrain, searching rocky fells, boglands, and slippery, moss-laden paths. After waiting patiently for days, even weeks, to spot an owl, she earns readers’ gratification in her success through tension gained from careful pacing, drawing out precise depictions of nature. Her language carries a charge—a way to view nature anew, as Atkin does—that serves as an antidote to modern life’s hustle and bustle:
“Sometimes living in my hyper-sensitive, hyper-aware, hyper-flexible Ehlers-Danlos body, I feel like I need a hard shell to move through the human world, with all its noise and light, all of its fervid activity” (43-44).
Throughout, Atkin observes the life cycle of a family of tawny owls with three young, from their newly hatched state into owlets in their delicate stages of development. Her concern and sensitivity to their well-being evolves as they face the elements, though she makes the choice not to intervene and instead respect natural order. She follows them through months of growth, referring to them by birth order as “Eldest child, “Middle child,” and “Baby,” drawing a connection between their behaviors and her own family’s birth order (Atkin is the youngest of three). Struck by the similarities, she expresses an “anthropomorphic pride” (151) in the owls’ parenting, asserting from her perspective that “tawny owlets look after each other, that they keep an eye on each other” (60)—a unique, resonant privilege to witness.
With this pride emerges a keen environmental literacy, as Atkin recognizes the need for habitat preservation and addresses issues such as over-development and light pollution. In the chapter entitled “Branching Out Early,” winter visitors to Grasmere, the village where Atkin resides, worry about owlets that have left their nest and are now exposed to the elements. When the visitors demand the involvement of a wildlife charity, Atkin attempts to convey to them “the cost of land and space and staff and housing, how it squeezes so many important amenities out of the national park,” (75) and how “the only people who can afford to buy homes now are people who have made money somewhere else first” (75), pushing out the potential for animal sanctuaries as well.
One stirring instance of Atkin’s further protective action towards these birds comes in “Burying the Owl,” when she finds “a tawny owl, face up, dead, soaked through, moth-eaten oak and sycamore leaves stuck to its chest” (63) and wonders if she did the right thing by burying it (under one of her windows). Here she employs anthropomorphism, as she does throughout when referring to the owls, to its full effect, inviting a resonance with human grief. It affects Atkin, who now projects melancholy on the hoots she hears, wondering if there are other owls unable to find closure because of her burial. She takes on responsibility, carrying the sorrow and pointing to a larger dynamic between humans and wildlife in their natural habitat we may encroach upon:
“I bury her for selfish reasons, to keep her close to me, and to keep my idea of her close to me. I am not thinking about what her family might need. I am not thinking about owls for owls’ sake” (65).
Late 18th and early 19th century poet William Wordsworth, a central figure in Romantic literature and a Lake District resident, also wrote about encounters with tawny owls along with his sister, Dorothy. Wordsworth’s influence can be found in Atkin’s lyrical style through her selective use of archaic diction, meditation on nature, and moral introspection. Likewise, she captures other natural phenomena, such as shifts in weather or light with bucolic nostalgia, writing “there is low cloud moving quickly in the wind, revealing and concealing the moon. It is beautiful, but uncomfortable” (92). In the chapter “The Human Who Was Afraid of the Dark,” Atkin recalls her childhood fear of the dark, then a move to the Lake District, where she “cohabited with real dark for the first time in my life” (53). Here, she “learnt the Northern Lights” as well as what it is to “love the night” (53) and its inhabitants.
Atkin explores owls’ impact on a global scale in the chapter entitled “Connection,” where she lays out how the internet, through information, photos, and videos, can unite owl-watchers from different parts of the world. This became especially important during the COVID pandemic, during which Atkin was writing, when this content helped fans feel a little less isolated from their interests. Yet owls remain mysterious in their mythical qualities, as Atkin admits she will never fully know them:
“All that I do know is gleaned from reading, from books or online, or from local talk. Or from moments like this, watching them live their owl lives in tiny snippets only, with no way to see inside them to know how they feel” (76).
In the final chapter, “Spring,” Atkin gives a lasting impression of longing to commune with nature, reminding us that humans inhabit an entire ecosystem not meant for us alone. The owls serve as a steady reminder of our place within this ecosystem, calling to mind “something far beyond ourselves, our knowledge, our perception and our comprehension” (190). By observing the owls deeply and drawing endless inspiration from them, Atkin gently guides the reader to discover that we are but guests in the ancient world the owls inhabit.
