EARLIER this week I was patrolling one of the quieter, more secluded areas of woodland which surrounds the open heath of the Rifle Range Nature Reserve.

Because of the density of the woodland, it can be really quite difficult to spot wildlife in this area, however it is a wonderful location to simply stop and listen to what the resident creatures are up to.

I had spent a few minutes doing just that, and trying to guess what I could hear, black birds rooting around in the leaf litter, squirrels scurrying up and down trees, I even heard the unmistakeable hoot of a tawny owl, followed by the screech of a little owl a little way off from where I was stood.

Then, from around two or three feet in front of me came a rather loud, sharp noise, defiantly a bird song, but not one that I could place. I walked a little further and the noise was repeated, this time a double note, followed by a rapid high pitch chattering and what looked like a brown winged-golf ball darting from a scrubby elder.

The noise was of course being made by a wren, one of Britain’s smallest birds, the initial sound had simply been the bird informing other wrens of his presence, however, the ensuing chatter had been his way of informing everything of my presence.

Being such a small, rather dull brown bird, the wren is often ignored. However, spend a few moments observing one, and they take on a real presence.

They have an almost bold character, flitting amongst the trees, staying just a few feet away from you as you meander through the woodland, repeatedly ‘ticking’ loudly, and almost scalding you for disturbing their peace.

Traditionally, the wren was known as the ‘king of all birds’.

There is much speculation as to the reason for this, but most is based on folklore, but there are striking similarities in the stories from all over the UK and North America.

One story I recently heard was that, during a competition to see who could fly the highest, the mighty eagle took flight and soared into the air, when it reached its limit, the tiny wren, who had stowed away in the eagle’s plumage, darted out, and ascended further into the sky, winning the competition, and becoming king.

The wren was also seen as a holy and magical bird with terrible bad luck being bestowed upon any person who killed one or raided a nest.

It was said that any person raiding a wren’s nest would suffer the loss of a loved one. There were however, certain circumstances when wrongdoers would hunt and kill wrens, in the hope that in doing so they would take on the wrens mystical powers and become leader of men.

It’s a little strange that such a small bird should attract such stories of grandeur, myth and magic. But it is such a charismatic, confident fellow that perhaps it should be no surprise.

It always has, and shall continue to be among my favourite songbirds.

By ADAM HAMILTON