Country diary: A feathered missile, a shout in the gloom

Misty. Dank. Grim. Dusk falls just after you get up. December.

I step on to the terrace for my daily minute of fresh air. Everything is hunkered down, biding its time. A single yellow leaf clings to the pear tree. Outlines of buildings are softened by grey. Despite its inviting appearance, the strip of lawn winding down to the shed is more bog than grass. Dog barks. Traffic rumbles. A robin gives the world the briefest ribbon of song.

Then silence. A south London morning. TSIB-A-TSAB-A-TSOO-DIDDY-DABBLE-IDDY-WODDA-TSIPP-A-BRRRR-TSIP-TSIP-TSIP-TSIP-TSIP-TJOP-TSRRRRRRRRRRR-TS’TJUPP-TJUPP-TJUPP-TJUPP!

Mate, keep it down, will you? That quivering energy, electrifying the air. Your instinct is to look for something out in the open, medium-sized, obvious. But that piercing sound often comes from deep in a bush, and its producer is almost comically tiny. It is – what else? – the wren. Jenny to its friends, ‘hedge king’ (Zaunkönig) if you’re German. I call it Tiny Shouter.

They’re year-round singers – a rare thing. And there’s nothing quite like a wren – stub tail cocked at 90 degrees, belting out its song as if determined to jump-start the universe – to enliven a drab December day. Soul recharger in avian form.

At this time of year, such an encounter brings to mind the Saint Stephen’s Day custom, particularly associated with Ireland and the Isle of Man, of ‘Hunting the Wren’ – an old ritual which, to modern sensibilities, seems unnecessarily cruel. The wren – hunted, caught and either caged or killed before being paraded through the town – might have been punished for betraying Saint Stephen’s whereabouts, he being the first Christian martyr, or it might have been a sacrifice of thanksgiving for the year past and hope for the year to come. Nobody really knows the origins. Whatever they are, nowadays a fake wren stands in for the real thing.

I wait, hoping for a repeat. I am partly rewarded. TSIB-A-TSAB-A-TSOO-DIDDY-DABBLE-IDDY.

A flurry of activity in the hazel. A feathered missile whirs low across the garden, perches on the fence for a second, then ducks down out of sight. I am not inclined to hunt it down.