Wren - the Sweetheart of the Suburbs

Photograph by Anthony McGeehan from his book Birds
This is a Wren on the seashore, I told you they are everywhere

I am sitting at the kitchen table in my mom's house. Outside is contonesater in its sanguine Christmas glory and on its branch, is a Wren. But it does not really stay on a branch. It flits from cover to cover. To the wren, movement is key, cos, in its mind, one of the smallest birds of our garden, is never safe. Nervous, twitchy and not so much shy, as highly cautious, it is named after the troglodyte. And everything about it is indeed as inconspicuous as a bird on the run - except that its song is heard, literally, everywhere.

For my money, the Wren appears to have colonised every habitat in Northern Ireland.  I have been on top of a struggling limestone plateau, not a tree in sight, and I have heard the song of the Wren. Went down for a stroll along the shifting sands of a silent beach and heard its unmistakable song - its loud, repetitive song - all belted out at the same pace and pitch, with the same degree of enthusiasm. It is a song that will astonish you with its implacability as well as its bolshi pugnaciousness. If you are sitting in a garden, and hear a bird singing, check the first three possible subjects on your list (excluding Crows and Magpies - which are crows, of course): Blackbird alarm call, Robin (especially if it is at night in the middle of winter, cos these fuckers never give up) and finally, the Wren. OK, maybe the Starling, but you will see them before you hear them. After that, you can get into Chaffinch, Dunnock and Blackcap, but I can guarantee you, 9/10 it will be one of the first three, squealing, if not four.

Anyhow, I can't hear the birds cos i'm indoors today, at this moment, but i can tell you, tis a Wren; cos of its furtive, duck-in and out the cotoneaster windows, pattern.

I love our garden birds. When I first started being introduced to birds, I used to be very pretentious. When someone asked me what my favourite bird was, I would say, something spectacular, like the Gannet, which is of course, a rather lovely bird. I mean, it is just sooooo gorgeous isn't it? What is there not to love about it? The lemony blush, the black liner, the bluest eye. What about its pinpoint accuracy when it dives, wings pinioned to its back, shearing the waters with the perfect amount of dramatic splash? The way it glides over the rolling waters, a sharp slice of light against the ever moving hues of blue. Man, it is hard not to love a bird like that. Living out on a craig at sea, like some salt hardened pirate, and yet, managing to look as gracefully manicured as an assassin with its steely white plummage, not a single feather misplaced. It is a seriously sexy bird. How could the cave dweller compete, eh?

But in my older age, I have come to appreciate the local companions. The sweet things that, like their suburban human counterparts, lead lives which, unassuming at the surface, are actually full of blood and bone. They fight each other for real estate, they are kind and co-operate, they sing sweet, simple but very competent and sufficient songs, they tend their young, sometimes, against all odds - like the cruel neighbourhood cat, or the uncaring hedge trimmer. They are grateful for little presents we leave out, but keep a respectful distance, if not certain prideful integrity. Yes, they will accept your gifts, but they will never be dependent.

And they make the most of what they have. They will nest in curling dark ivy, or cobweb woven leilandeii; they will hide in slightly abandoned coat pockets or sit at the top of the tallest branches, watching you warily. They are both so clever and stupid that you cannot but fall for them because, most of all, they are YOURS.

How did this begin? Ah, yes, with the Wren. I am now going to do a watercolour painting of a Wren. Ah, the sweetheart of the suburbs.