There’s a commotion in the bushes. It’s Britain’s noisiest bird in noise per weight; the Wren.
My 1935 Outline of Nature says:
“Its song is one of the most surprising features of the wren, for it is a performance of such power and vehemence that it would seem impossible for so small a bird to produce so large a volume of sound. If we watch the wren singing we shall see how the ardour of its song shakes it; it puts its whole soul into the song…”
Their poise is something else.
The reason for the noise is that there’s a family here. The adults are busy foraging for their chicks.
The youngsters have a soft yellow gape to their beaks:
I’ve had some amazing experiences with Wrens on Westray. Seeing this family brings back all the emotions of a severely injured Wren continuing to feed its family:
They’re brilliant at finding insects:
It’s over forty years since I drew a Wren for my nature notebooks:
One has perched on top of the wind-burnt Sycamore. I stand a chance of getting close to it if I’m careful.
I’m wading through waist-high nettles, moving very deliberately.
Now this, this is how close I want to be.
What a pleasure to be a part of their hard-working world.