Winter Windowland

The Tense team have been on a winter break in deepest darkest Shropshire.

More by good luck than good management, for our post-Christmas chill, we often experience a week of sub-zero temperatures for snowy walks and picturesque frosty vistas. But we weren’t too hopeful this year, what with all the arctic conditions over the festive period, and therefore reluctantly assumed that we’d had our cold spell for the winter.

Not so. For to arrive at the rented cottage, we had to drive up an icy tarmac’d lane, across a pot-holed farm yard and then down an even narrower, snow-covered track. Game on!

This particular cottage is a converted barn, nestled near the top of a valley close to Wenlock Edge. The bedrooms/bathroom are downstairs and the kitchen/diner and lounge are upstairs, with a large window looking out down the valley.

No phone signal, no street lights, no traffic. Just peace and quiet, if you don’t mind birdsong, and we certainly don’t.

Sally soon settled herself on the sofa, staring out of the window at the owners’ chickens and piglets, scratching and snuffling their way through the snow, looking for tasty morsels. And so began PigWatch! Not quite so unpredictable as the BBC’s [insert name of season]Watch, but with a variety of birds drawn towards whatever the livestock unearthed.

As the light began to fade, a male Bullfinch perched on the Buddleia bush beside the window, which afforded rather pleasing, close up views of this shy bird.

Then, as the sun set, wrens began to appear and gather in a communal roost under the eaves of the cottage. As this was effectively the corner of the lounge, we could hear them settling down for the night, chuntering to each other about various topical troglodytical issues and, presumably, how things used to be better in the old days. “ Cave? Call this a cave? In my day…etc.” In the decreasing light but with the snow giving a white background, we were able to pick out the little feathered missiles arriving, and counted at least 18 individuals approaching from the 180º arc visible to us.

Flitting from the surrounding shrubs onto the window ledges and the lapped pine walls of the cottage, it was like a scene from The Birds but as filmed by Beatrix Potter, not Alfred Hitchcock. Inspection of the eaves from ground level the following morning, revealed several old House Martin nests and a few small gaps, certainly sufficient for a tiny bird to squeeze through.

As Sal pointed out, with her genetically-inflicted punning ability, “This is a wren-ted cottage, after all.”

In the bleak mid-winter

The recent weather has certainly helped lift the festive mood. It always seems "right" when the garden looks a bit like the myriad of Christmas cards adorning more and more of the horizontal surfaces in the lounge. I hasten to clarify that I'm referring to the snowy scene, rather than the herd of red-nosed reindeer being tended to by the portly gentleman with the white beard.

A cold snap does tend to draw wildlife into the garden. Under the bitter sun, it becomes an oasis in a barren, frozen desert. Over lunch, I spotted a male Bullfinch in one of our rose bushes, his chest incredibly red against the white snow on the branches. Then between these two paragraphs, a male Sparrowhawk has spent a few minutes sitting in the Hawthorn tree attempting to flush a snack from an ivy-covered fence with his icy stare. Several unsuccessful lunges later, he decided to take his custom elsewhere, to terrify some other bird feeder. There will inevitably follow a few nervous minutes until I can confirm the continued existence of the single Coal Tit to grace the environs of Tense Towers. Heck, a male Blackcap, just where the "sprawk" was hunting! But it's chased off by a blinking squirrel before I can bring the camera to bear. Bum.

All this action is set against the Test Match Special cricket commentary from South Africa, with soaring temperatures and waning England hopes. My mental clock is now on Saffer time, so I've felt a meal behind all day.

As the low sun sends the lengthening shadows slicing across the garden, the birds (who are a meal ahead of everybody) congregate for the final eating opportunity of the day. It will be another very chilly night and, whilst running the risk of mixing up my religious festivals, sadly for some, it may be their Last Supper.

Coal Tit! Phew!