A Walk in December

Exploring the garden in midwinter

It’s been far from a picture postcard winter here. Nothing but a smattering of snow in November which melted by lunchtime. Instead, we have had rain, mud and monochrome grey skies. The cold is the kind that seeps into your brain. Woe betide me if I forget my woolly hat, I’ll be thawing the tips of my ears for hours! But winter has its own unique beauty. With brief but beautiful sunsets followed by crisp cold nights, sprinkled with stars. The midwinter stillness only punctuated by the call of a fox, or the lone hoot of a tawny owl. And so, if I can tempt you away from the warmth of your fireside, I’d like to take you on a walk.

The wind is bitterly cold on this late day in December, and the night descends quickly – so I won’t keep you long. I know you will be keen to return to the fire and the warmth. And maybe the odd left-over mince pie (if you are in the UK). But I urge you to join me to see what’s happening in the world outside.

The field feels a lot like my house after Christmas day. Collections of dry and crispy autumn leaves litter the ground, like discarded wrapping paper. Waiting for someone to get fed up of wading through the mess and tidy them up. The leaves will be either raked to the edges of the lawn or gathered up to create a leaf pile. Allowing small creatures and insects to stay cosy over the coming months.

The cawing of crows adds a melancholy edge to the soundtrack of the skies, which are filled with chattering fieldfares. The first year I lived here, I was overjoyed to see my first ever fieldfare. A lone thrush eating rotting fruit from my ancient apple tree. But now the skies are filled with them. I look up as a lone greylag goose flies determinedly overhead. On its way south, calling out as if to say ‘wait for me’ as the rest of the flock left a few weeks ago.

Photo by Niklas Veenhuis on Unsplash

The urge to tidy in advance of a New Year takes hold of me, and I grab the leaf rake. This year I left all the leaves to fall where they may. But combined with the winter mud, they are proving to be quite a slipping hazard. Not to mention the delightful range of coppers, ochres and rusts of autumn have transformed into a not so attractive murky brown. But I look past that, I see instead the rich deep brown of fertile soil, as this is what they will eventually become.

And so, I get to work. Maverick dances around me, dropping his toy in each pile I create. My fingers freeze against the metal of the handle, and I wish I had worn gloves. But the smell of earth and leaf mould is comforting and grounds me. My toil disturbs a bright green caterpillar larva. I cover it up carefully, knowing that a wily blackbird will likely ferret it out later. But I can try my best to save it. Some later research will reveal this caterpillar to be the overwintering larva of the Angle Shades moth.

The berry bounty that adorned the hedgerow in September has been decimated. Just the occasional little dark purple berry dangles from the tree, like the last remaining Christmas tree bauble when you take the tree down. Much of the wildlife is invisible at this time of year. The only evidence of its presence being the fact that the small pile of nuts I put out daily, disappears within half an hour. A little like a box of mince pies in my house. Sunflower seeds in the bird feeders are gone within twenty-four hours. And the wildlife garden is scattered with remnants of the fox and badger’s Christmas day feast of plums and boiled eggs.

In the bird garden everyone’s fighting for leftovers. Blackbirds and song thrushes daily scour the tree for mushy crab apples. A far cry from the abundance of yellow fruit which the tree was laden with in autumn. Failing that they raid the holly bush for berries.

A lone wood pigeon lumbers around beneath the trees, searching for scraps – of which there are very few. Since I needed to deter the rats that had taken up residence underneath the paving flags. So, I throw him a handful of birdseed, knowing that the rats will also appreciate the extra food this winter.

I top up the mealworms in the bird feeder, knowing the bluetits that bred here in the spring will appreciate them. If they can get a look in before the starlings appear. As I leave, my resident dunnock hops out from beneath the holly bush to pick up a morsel. Then the robin flies up to hover like a hummingbird, pecking at the feeder. Returning to the branch of the crab apple triumphant, with a crumb of my home-made bird food in its beak. I’m happy this will provide a little boost of energy to help it to chase off any competition for its winter territory.

Photo by Charlotte on Unsplash

In the front garden the blue tits and great tits bob around on the buddleia and birch trees. Eating seed and any insects they are lucky enough to find. Unlike the birds, I am grateful for a lack of spiders at this time of year. Slugs emerge on the patio each evening, but they are really the only live miniature creature I see. Except for the occasional tiny moth that appears in my torchlight.

A fight breaks out in the hedgerow. Loud squabbling and cheeping precede an explosion of little brown sparrows, who scatter into the air and continue to argue all the way to the bird feeder. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a few family squabbles, and my garden is no exception. Starlings fight over the mealworms, and robins chase one another around the holly bush. Other birds are more harmonious. The flocks of fieldfares work together to find the best sites for foraging. They will descend on the remaining berries and leftover fruit in the orchard as soon as I step inside. And the pheasants are happily hanging out together in the wildlife garden.

Photo by P A on Unsplash

Let me take you down to my favourite space, which I call the wildlife garden. A lone long tailed tit alights on the bird feeder. Its high-pitched call uplifting, like a Christmas carol on a frosty night. Rarely seen alone, I know it’s flock will not be far behind. Waiting in the wings for their turn on the feeder, tucked away in the branches of the plum tree.

I admire my magnificent Magnolia. A burst of sunshine yellow - flowering for the first time since we moved here and I brutally cut it back. My husband has been its champion every time I’ve tried to remove it (and with a distinct dislike of both yellow shrubs and spikes, I tried very hard!) But now it’s been moved three times, it’s wonderful to see it finally thriving – especially as it will provide pollen for emerging insects.

I brush past fragile skeletons of last year’s perennials. I’m reminded that it will be time to tackle them soon. I will add them to the brash pile, which is growing each year into the mightiest of mansions for the smaller mammals that inhabit the garden, the wood mice, rats and hedgehogs.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to remove the impressive giant thistle, whose skeletal structure is still holding strong against the elements. Simply a weed that grew out of control. It became a favourite haunt for ladybirds – whose brilliant splotches of red I miss. I take care not to step on the leaf litter that lines the bottom of the fence, as I witnessed several hibernating ladybirds nestling among the leaves before they dropped.

I pause to admire the barrel pond I created last summer. The ponds glass like surface is still. Nothing stirs beneath. More dead leaves are swirled across the surface. I’ve accepted that my miniature ponds are unlikely to be home to amphibians but may act as a nice little pit stop on their way to larger ponds and water sources. It also works well as a bird bath and drinking station for many of the garden birds.

My beautiful oak tree appears to be sleeping, still clinging to its copper leaves and one or two tiny toadstools peek through the leaf litter beneath. Pared back shrubs reveal splotchy lichen-stained fences. Everything looks a little tired and worn. Like the party is over and everyone has gone home, leaving me with the mess to clean up. The branches of the trees are bare, revealing an array of birds’ nests. Some of which were home to families of blackbirds and stock doves. Others that were abandoned part way through building – reminding me of some of my failed dreams this year. It strengthens my resolve to rebuild them stronger in 2026.

As I return to the house, I note that the blackbirds have moved into the apple and laurel bushes that tower over our neighbour’s fence. I’m assaulted by loud angry chittering when I switch on the outside light to chase away the rapidly descending darkness. Once the blackbird scolding has subsided, there’s a stillness to everything. Birds appear but disappear just as quickly. As if they too are keen to get back home to the warmth of their roosting sites.

Can you see a face?

But there is also a sense of the light returning. And even now, there are hints of the spring renewal that is around the corner. The tiny buds on the damson tree are like little Christmas fairy lights. The fluffy yellow lambs tail catkins of the hazel dangle like tree decorations. And the tiny fuchsia female flowers - like little sea anemones - have appeared ready for spring. Crocuses are even pushing their green shoots through the earth.

As I see the new flower bed - peppered with the tiny seedlings of wildflower bombs I sowed in autumn – my mind flashes forward to spring, and then summer. When this space will be a riot of colour and a nectar heaven for the pollinators. Just in time for them to check out my beautiful new bug box, kindly made for me by a good friend this Christmas.

The wood pigeon is now hanging around its nesting site, and a pair of collared doves already setting about their mating rituals. I hope they consider rebuilding their nest at the back of our house. The new polytunnel is housing hopefuls like tulips, crocuses and even some summer flowers like larkspur, ready for the cutting patch I have planned.

Soon the garden will be filled with life again - breeding birds, budding flowers, sunlight and birdsong. But for now, I’m grateful for the rest. For the opportunity to see everything pared back to its foundations. To see where I can improve things. Where I need to cut back, establish which things have flourished, and remove those which have outlived their time. But now is not the time to act. Now is the time to curl my hands around a cup of steaming coffee, watch the robin at the feeder…. and dream.

Hazel catkins

As I warm up by the fire - Maverick by my side, Leo curled up by my feet - I look out towards the riverbank and imagine what’s going on in nature away from home. Hares pop their heads up in the headlights. Deer frolic in the fields by the roadside like miniature reindeer, without a care in the world. The heron has had a family and taken up a nightly vigil in the field opposite our house.

Mini murmurations of starlings swoosh overhead towards the wetlands for the evening. A sparrowhawk roosts in the most unlikely of places, on the trellis above our neighbour’s front door. Crows gather on the electricity pylons, surveying the neighbourhood and calling to one another, and a pheasant stalks the footpaths.

Photo by William Foley on Unsplash

I do not quite know how to keep up with this crazy human world we inhabit. Things are moving so fast. But the garden is always there. The turning of the wheel predictable, constant. Just like the birds returning for winter and leaving in the spring. And so, I might not know what to write to please the algorithm – but I can always write about the thing that brings me back home, to myself, and that is my garden. I hope it can bring you a little bit of peace and magic too.

Until next time.

Melissa x

How was your December? I would love to hear about your nature and wildlife experiences in the comments below.

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