If I could get away with sleeping through January, I would. I envy the hedgehogs tucked up in their hibernacula; the bats in their secret winter places; the dormice in their cleverly woven, sealed nests; the ladybirds nestled in window frames. Hibernation seems like a very good idea. It doesn’t help that it’s that cold, flat sort of winter day, easy to turn away from. My partner fancies a walk, but I’m not keen.
“We could play the robin game?” he tempts. The robin game is simple: go for a walk then see how long it takes for a robin to find you and put on a show. Not just a glimpse, but a full, brash encounter. It’s a good time of year to play: in winter, our resident robins are joined by swells of their Scandinavian relatives, all of them bold and curious and unafraid of humans, their genetic memory whispering that big mammals often excavate worms. They first followed the snuffling boars of UK forests; now they follow gardeners, walkers, us.
