WHEN down at the Blackdevon Wetlands near Alloa recently, I stopped for a while to watch a busy wren as it crawled in among a thick tangle of brambles.

The behaviour of this diminutive wren was more akin to a mouse than a bird, creeping this way and that and investigating every nook and cranny, under roots and in crevices, 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.

The wren is cosmopolitan in where it can be found too, and whilst principally a bird of our gardens, woods and hedgerows, it also occurs 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 that 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 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.

During my visit to the Black Devon Wetlands, a pair of reed buntings spiralled up into the air from a damp margin.

They are sparrow-sized birds with the males being so very distinctive with their black heads.

The male's song is feeble though, the tune consisting of a few rather weak notes.

Also catching the eye was a thick stand of rosebay willowherb – such a serene name for a plant, although it is sometimes more prosaically known as fireweed because of its prolificacy in colonising areas of forest destroyed by fire.

I stopped for a while to immerse myself in this sea of pinkness, watching bumblebees and hoverflies making good the richness of the nectar. Fireweed – yes, a most appropriate name, for these wind-whispered flowers could easily be likened to flickering flames.