Fascinating to watch and steeped in folklore, the wren is worth a second glance

The behaviour of the diminutive wren is more akin to a mouse than a bird, creeping this way and that and investigating every nook and cranny, under roots and in crevices in walls, and crawling beneath the thickest of vegetation.

Its family name, Troglodytes, provides a perfect summation of its almost subterranean lifestyle amongst the darker recesses that this intriguing little bird just loves to haunt.

It is pretty cosmopolitan in where it can be found too, and while principally a bird of our gardens, woods and hedgerows, it also appears in more unforgiving places. It is very frequent on moorland, especially along mountain burns up to about 600m, where surprisingly it can even be found in winter, feeding safely beneath the snow amongst the twisted stems of heather.

The wren is an incredible songster, spilling forth a rich volley of notes which belies its tiny stumpy form. The male in spring puts every ounce of energy into his song, the wings and tails vibrating with the sheer passion of delivery. But perhaps the most endearing part of his behaviour is the endless effort in trying to impress female birds with his nest-building skills.

In spring, the determined cock bird will build several intricately constructed nests in his territory in an attempt to attract a mate. This ball-shaped masterpiece with its tiny entrance hole woven near the top is sometimes built in a bush, but more typically situated in a crevice in a wall, or amongst the roots of an up-ended tree. A female bird will then cast a critical eye over each nest and the one that meets with her approval is lined with feathers in preparation for egg laying. Whilst such endeavours mean a considerable expenditure of effort on the part of the male, the plus side is that his nests may attract more than one female for him to mate with.

Nests, however, can turn up in the most unusual places such as inside garden sheds, and there is even the rather grisly record from the beginning of the 20th century of a nest tucked into the dried-out carcass of a sparrowhawk hanging from a gamekeeper’s gibbet.

Another fascinating snippet about wrens that makes the bird stand out from the avian crowd are the different island races found in Scotland, which have probably evolved as a result of their sedentary habits. The wrens on Shetland, Fair Isle and the Outer Hebrides are all regarded as distinct sub-species from their mainland cousins due to slight variances in size, plumage and marginally different songs. With a population of only around 30 or so pairs, the Fair Isle wren has the dubious distinction of being one of the world’s least numerous type of bird. The most renowned of our sub-species is the St Kilda wren, which particularly favours steep slopes where puffins and fulmars nest because their rich guano encourages plenty of plant growth that in turn attracts insects to feed upon.

On Boxing Day, the extraordinary ritual of “Hunting the Wren” used to be a popular event. This involved boys known as “Wren Boys” catching a wren and then tying the unfortunate bird to the top of a pole, decorated with holly and ribbons. Those that gave money to the boys would receive a feather from the wren as thanks. The ritual, which harks back to ancient times, is most commonly recorded from England, Wales, the Isle of Man and Ireland, but there are accounts from Scotland too.

Due to their reliance on small invertebrates for food, wrens are vulnerable to extremely cold spells of weather when the population can plummet. However, numbers usually bounce back quickly in subsequent years, thanks to the large broods produced during the nesting season, which is why the wren is one of our most familiar birds. The wren may look rather unremarkable at first glance, but behind this drab-plumaged façade lies one of our more interesting creatures – a bird steeped in our folklore and always enjoyable to watch.