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

West Norwood, south London: Christmas is a treacherous time of year for the wren, according to custom. You'd think this one would be quieterMisty. 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. Continue reading...