The last and longest-lasting berry crop has sustained some stupid and resourceful birds all through the winter. At least this wood pigeon acts stupid; standing there on the lawn for three minutes or maybe more, allowing every stealth hunter in the neighbourhood an unhurried approach and a long, lingering appraisal of its chances. I’m beginning to think the bird might be sick, when the pigeon rouses itself, waddles a few steps like a shopper laden with too many bags, pauses and cocks its head. It waddles a few more steps and tips its eye to the sky. Only then can I see that it’s actually looking hard at the fence, assessing the ivy for the ripeness of its fruit. That silly plod has blinded me to the pigeon’s shrewd opportunism. All through the cold months, little gangs of wood pigeons have embarked on lightning raids into these slow-release plants. The berries of ivy, Britain’s only evergreen liana, darken into black maturity at widely differing rates, depending on location. Meanwhile, the pigeons watch from the roofs and treetops for the right moment to drop. In early December, a dozen or so flapped into a sun-kissed west-facing hedge for an orgiastic plucking party. And a six-pack descended again just before Christmas to plunder another “best not eaten before” stand looking south. I’ve not seen other birds feeding on ivy this winter, even though it’s the best harvest in my memory. Either ivy berries taste awful, are a last resort, or pigeons are first to the feast. A startle of white, a semaphore flash. The bold bars on my hitherto grounded pigeon’s raised wings draw in three others before it has even alighted on the ivy. Stretching for the nearest hanging fruit, it combines a gymnast’s grace with a bouncer’s weight. The thin bough bows, and the bird counteracts its sagging fortunes by turning wings into arms, fanning them out on both sides, holding position, spreading its weight. Pluck, pluck, pluck, for just a few seconds, and then the quartet disperse. The birds are gone and berries remain. Thousands of them, all green, starved of sunlight on a north-facing fence, and maturing oh so slowly.