Though the temptation to stay cosy indoors is often difficult to resist, most mornings I try to get into the garden, breathe the crisp air and, if I’m lucky, feel the faint caress of the winter sun on my face. If it’s dry, I’ll sit quietly and watch the birds. Gregarious long-tailed tits, blue tits, blackbirds and robins never seem concerned by my proximity, but as the temperature has plummeted, shyer species have become bolder, leaving the cover of the undergrowth in search of food.
As I warm my hands around a cup of coffee, a wren weaves through the branches of the potted Nordmann fir abandoned next to my chair. Stripped of its festive baubles, it’s now decorated with gossamer spider’s webs, and both web-spinners and entangled prey make a high-energy snack. The dunnock that usually skulks beneath my bay tree hops out from between two galvanised planters. It shuffles mouse-like around my feet, wings and tail flicking nervously, as it pecks tiny seeds from the plumy seedheads of the self-sown Panicum capillare grass sprouting between the patio paving stones.
