You know, through the long, sweaty Singapore years, cooped up in our high-rise apartment, we often talked in a misty-eyed fashion about a golden future in which we’d have a garden. It would be an elegant, well-groomed, peaceful place, with gently tinkling rills, shady trees, lush lawns and rank upon rank of fragrant roses, peonies, and such. Of course there would be bees, balmily buzzing from blossom to blossom, and butterflies fluttering by, and maybe a few crickets sawing their shimmering song from the trees.

And birds. Of course there would be birds: brightly-coloured, exotic songbirds, carolling tunefully, building nests from gossamer and moss knit together with silken spider webs. This was always a priority for me – the avian order has always had a certain fascination, so the garden would house a bird bath and nesting boxes and of course bird feeders for the leaner times of year.

The ulterior motive is that attracting the native fowl would provide the opportunity try shooting my versions of those super-vivid closeup images of eagles, hawks and the like taken by nature photographers for the cover of National Geographic, or those amazing action shots of kingfishers plunging into the water that win prizes from the BBC.

I’d tried before, while visiting South Africa, Namibia and various spots where birds hang out in the wild. In Singapore I stalked sunbirds and tiny hanging parrots from the dining room window, learning rapidly that you need specialist gear to get those beautiful shots and it doesn’t come cheap. Since coming to Australia I’ve lurked about in various gardens or hiked through Jerrabomberra Wetlands Reserve in search of the perfect feathery subjects.

Naturally, there is precedent: living in London I had a clear plastic feeder with suction cups that stuck it to the window of my fourth-storey flat. You could watch the local birdlife through the window as they attended to their culinary needs outside, all unawares. As it turned out, the only birds that obliged were tits (not an insult – parus major, the great tit), who would show up before sunrise for a free breakfast and vigorously bash the provided black sunflower seeds against the window to crack them open. And they wouldn’t show any consideration on weekends when their benefactor within wanted to have a lie-in, the noisy little buggers.

But the idea of providing a friendly environment for avifaunae has persisted, and I must have bored people with the idea, because for my last birthday I received a compendious tome on how to create a bird-friendly garden. As we’ve settled into Corner Cottage, I’ve thought about it a bit, but what with winter and all, it hasn’t seemed the right time.

But now it’s spring, it’s reasonable to hope that some of the local migratory species might be about to make a return and would probably appreciate a spread of welcoming delights after their journey. I checked out a couple of cute feeders in a shop in Bungendore last week, but they looked quite basic and being a backyard engineer of some considerable experience, I decided to make my own.

And today was the day. The only criterion was that the feeder must be of a design that discourages ravens from hogging all the grub, and that it should be similarly unconducive to the hopes of the possum I’ve seen in the big tree that dominates the garden. To this I added some construction constraints: it being a Sunday, manufacture must be of available material and with tools and fastenings already present in and about the home, because the shops were all shut.

Luckily, we have a pile of wood offcuts from the cottage’s recent renovation, stacked under the water tank out back. I selected some likely bits which seem to have been part of an earlier deck: ribbed teak coated with some kind of varnish. And lots of it, some cut in 45-degree angles which is advantageous – especially as there’s no workbench and all cuts will be made on the edge of the veranda while the craftsman kneels on the plank to hold it steady.

I have no nails, but found a big box of Bunnings’ generic timber screws, so the time-honoured screw-‘n-glue method of construction would be employed. In terms of construction, let’s call it simple, hardy, and quick. You can really go to town on these things, and people do. Here’s one from Canada, all made up like a tiny pub. Top marks for creativity, although to be dull and prosaic, I’m betting the birds don’t really care about the décor. They’re all about the seed, man. If your feeder keeps it dry and available, that’s what brings them flocking round.

Once we have our idyllic garden with the manicured lawns etc., an upgrade may be necessary – something along the lines of a castle or mansion, perhaps – but for now it’s about getting the vittles out for the tits. And wrens and robins.

So, with about an hour’s sunlight left this afternoon, construction began. The advantage of going for a rustic look is that any slight imperfection just adds to the overall effect. And there are plenty of those. I won’t give you a blow-by-blow account – suffice to say, construction was reasonably hassle-free, but the light finally departed before the seed hopper could be affixed.

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And there’s not much of a roof yet – the feeders I saw in Bungendore had tin covers, which is a good way of ensuring dryness within, and we didn’t have tin or plastic available hereabouts today. The varnished teak might do, but one drawback has emerged during construction – it’s pretty heavy. The contraption is assuming quite massy proportions and will need a robust chain or similar to suspend it from its branch.

But that’s a consideration for tomorrow. Once it becomes weather-tight and stocked with that sweet, sweet seed, we’ll find a place for it: proximity to some bushes where I can lurk with a telephoto lens would be great, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, this is just one small step toward that idyllic secret garden we’re working on.