Glyn Frewer reveals how he created a pond in his Oxfordshire garden that now attracts all creatures great and small had been in our new home a year before the pond was dug. The lie of the land cried out for it. At the foot of the steeply sloping field which took up half of the four-acre plot, was a boggy area that seemed of little use to man nor beast, waist high as it was with horsetails.

Once it had been established that clay lay beneath the three feet of mud, a JCB soon dug an unsightly pit 130ft long and 30ft wide, sloping from a depth of two feet at one end to 10ft at the other, with a small island in the middle.

A five-inch diameter plastic pipe was led from one of the springs higher up the slope to the shallow-end and an outflow pipe at the deep-end would keep the water level constant. All this was achieved by the end of October.

Within a week, water skaters and whirlygig beetles were in the water gathering at the deep-end and dragonflies, common darters, had found the site.

The lake took nine weeks to fill and the day the first trickle escaped through the outflow, we raised a glass. Before sitting back and letting nature take its course, however, we put in some fish - half-a-dozen small young carp, two tench, two gudgeon, a dozen golden orfe and a dozen sticklebacks, just to give nature a nudge.

Now we sat back for the winter, though the odd day was spent clearing the molehills and making a flat path round the circumference.

Spring arrived and the vegetation was already staking its claim in the newly turned earth. All the plants must have been there, overrun by the ubiquitous horsetails.

Various sedges began to sprout and overhang the bare edges and, as the weather warmed up, new shoots of rosebay willowherb, ragged robin, thistles and meadowsweet began to appear.

It was in late March that the first wildlife visitor drawn to the new environment let its presence be known. A large bird flew noisily from a clump of ivy 15ft up a blackthorn, near the deep end of the lake. I thought it must be a woodpigeon. It happened again the next day and this time was identifiable. A moorhen, nesting high because as yet there was not sufficient cover near the water.

From the moment of this encouraging discovery, almost every visit to the area provided an interesting sighting of a wildlife newcomer or activity. That same week, I watched a stoat emerge from the brambles and dart frenetically in wide circles near the bank, trying to pick up scents.

Glimpses of a muntjac deer racing away with its white shaving-brush-tail bobbing, became commonplace. On one occasion, while watching rabbits through binoculars, there was a rustling high in the ivy-clad willow under which I was standing and, thinking it too loud for a squirrel, looked up in time to see an adult fox emerge from the tangled platform over my head, walk daintily down the sloping trunk, turning to glance at me before loping off unhurriedly into the hedge. I have seen him several times since, descending from the same spot - a perfect refuge, as well as a vantage point with a clear view all round.

In mid-April, as I approached the lake I could hear cheeping. An adult moorhen swam from the cover of overhanging grass at the shallow end, followed by five newly-hatched chicks which had evidently tumbled safely from the blackthorn. Two days later, there were four chicks. Next day, I watched the fox, no doubt the tree-dweller, moving stealthily along the bank. He ran off on seeing me.

The following day there were three chicks; then two; and then there were none. It was sad, but not surprising. Only now were sedges beginning to cover the island and thistles and willowherb on the banks. What with the fox, the stoat, not to mention the magpies, jays and crows, the chicks never had much of a chance.

Days later, I watched the two adult moorhens pulling grass from the bank before disappearing beneath the now thickening canopy of weeds. On a morning in mid-May, the hen was huddled beneath the inflow-pipe.

Seeing me, she made for the island followed by seven chicks and I could hardly refrain from cheering. During the summer these chicks were reduced to two, but these two did survive, growing almost indistinguishable from their parents.

Then, in July, another surprise. The female moorhen, unusually fearless, swam from the bank to the island, now clad with willowherb, thistles and sedge. Five newly-hatched chicks followed her, her third brood. The two fledged chicks followed them and the male adult appeared soon after. I was watching nine moorhens feeding and the two fledged chicks were helping their parents feed the voracious cheeping baby chicks, a touching sight of family togetherness.

By the end of the summer, the newness of the lake was hidden by vegetation that was positively luxurious. The gold of marsh marigolds, the pink flowering watermint and willowherb, the darker shades of loosestrife and ragged robin coloured the borders of the lake like a dream come true. Which it was.

Just to stand there, watching the swallows skimming the surface, was a delight in itself. The whole enterprise had surpassed all expectations. And it continued that way.

Autumn saw the visit of a pair of Canada geese which stayed for a day, grazing the field slope. A pair of mallards would circle each dusk prior to landing and spending the night.

A heron was a constant visitor, causing mixed feelings, but wildlife was what we wanted and who were we to pick and choose? (The golden orfe disappeared and were never replaced).

Satisfaction increased next spring when, in March, the deep-end frothed and seethed with a frenzy of frogs, more than 70 of them, producing within days a raft of spawn.

Two weeks later, at the opposite end, toads were spawning, though their ribbons of spawn were harder to find. Shoals of tin-tacks, the fry of I knew-not-what fish were darting around the edges. Later, in the summer, dragonflies and damselflies added spectacular colours and activity, especially the blue-metallic sheen of the broad-bodied libellula, chasing every insect in sight.

In October, with the lake just two years old, came a real highlight, announced by an unmistakable short piping call. A kingfisher.

I sat mesmerised for an hour and a half, during which time it dived 14 times and caught eight fish, all about an inch long. Most of his dives were from the same bough, straight into the water, each time returning to the identical spot to bang his catch hard against the branch before deftly turning it to swallow headfirst.

But several times he stopped his dive short and hovered, wings beating furiously just above the surface, for all the world like a giant humming-bird, before plunging in to make a catch.

The darting shoals of fry which had been such a welcome sight in the spring were no doubt providing the meals but it was even more thrilling to see that they had lured this spectacular predator.

I walked back up the slope marvelling at what the installation of a lake had achieved in only two years. I have not mentioned the water-rail that stayed for three weeks in March, nor the pair of tufted duck which stayed five days, nor the errant Muscovy duck and the exciting glimpse of a snipe.

So much of what we do today is harmful to wildlife and it is reassuring to know that such a small and easy-to-create environmental change can bring so many benefits to wildlife, and such enjoyment and satisfaction to the instigator of that change.

Heaven knows, our wildlife needs all the help it can get.

Best of the bunch - FOXGLOVE a With the trends in gardening veering towards more traditional plants, we will surely be seeing a return in popularity of the foxglove (Digitalis), an imposing perennial or biennial, producing tall spires of funnel-shaped flowers in different shades in early summer. Good varieties include D. purpurea, which grows to six ft (2m) and is great towards the back of an informal border.

For a later bloom go for D. x mertonensis, which grows to around three ft (90cm), producing crushed strawberry-coloured summer flowers above attractive veiny leaves. Foxgloves tolerate most soils, preferably in partial shade and look as good in woodland borders as they do in cottage gardens.