Country Diary: The Burren

Today I walked the coast road towards the Black Head lighthouse, veering off to strike down to the O'Loghlen castle keep by the bay. I saw not a single insect, not even a midge, although I'd seen a bumblebee in our own garden the day before. I was, of course, surrounded by thousands of them, unseen by me or any other human being. They were in diapause, their winter sleep time. If I'd been minded to investigate, I might have found colonies of ladybirds in a split tree bark or indeed in our garden shed. We do have four small tortoiseshell butterflies in our garage. One year we had dozens all over the house. I painstakingly captured all of them, using a sieve and a sheet of paper - an infallible method - and placed them in the garage.

Such wonders all about, lizards on strike in their wintering sleep, brumation. Even snails coat the entrances to their shells and join the queue to escape the cold. The human species is likewise not immune to imitation, "galloping" off to the sun for a breath of warmth. The insects, reptiles and molluscs may sleep, but our birds are busy. At first light I love to watch them, rooks flapping, finches and tits dancing through the air, thrushes and blackbirds fast, undiverging - motorway flying. Blackbirds, I believe, gorge on rowan tree berries - so much so that, a little drunk, they can no longer fly straight.

Once I witnessed a delightful procession, a family of skunks - a mother with four young - one behind the other, walking across our front lawn in the US. Who would think, seeing this maternal scene, that the species so efficient in modern gas warfare is equally professional in the slaughter of insects noxious to crops?

Large and little, near and far, our fellow creatures capture our unceasing wonder, our unbewildered admiration.