After visiting Argelers and remembering the tragedy of the Republican refugees, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma continue their journey along the Mediterranean coast.
Their next destination is Banyuls de la Marenda, a beautiful seaside town in Catalunya Nord, surrounded by vineyards, mountains and the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
Banyuls is closely associated with the sculptor Aristide Maillol, whose artistic legacy remains an important part of the town's cultural identity. However, it is also the place where one of the most extraordinary women in contemporary Catalan cultural history spent the final decades of her life. Her name was Teresa Rebull.
In 1939, the poet Joan Oliver, better known as Pere Quart, wrote Corrandes d'exili, one of the most moving poems about the Republican exile. His verses express the pain of leaving one's homeland, the uncertainty of departure and the sorrow of separation.
Decades later, Teresa Rebull would sing about her country from a different perspective. Her song El meu país speaks of a profound emotional relationship with the land, language and memories that define a person's identity.
If Pere Quart represents the painful farewell, Teresa Rebull represents the enduring connection with everything that exile could not destroy. Both artists remind us that a homeland is much more than a geographical territory. It is also a language, a collection of memories, a cultural inheritance and a place that continues to exist within us even when we are far away.
Teresa Soler i Pi was born in Sabadell on 21 September 1919. She grew up in a politically active environment. Her mother, Balbina Pi, was an important figure in the anarcho-syndicalist movement.As a young woman, Teresa became involved in political activism and joined the POUM. During the Spanish Civil War, she worked as a volunteer nurse.
Following the Republican defeat in 1939, she went into exile in France, where she subsequently collaborated with the French Resistance during the Second World War. Her life was marked by political struggle, exile and a determination to defend social justice and cultural freedom. But Teresa was much more than a political activist. She was also a singer, composer, painter and a woman with an extraordinary capacity for reinventing herself.
Teresa Rebull began her recording career relatively late in life. In 1969, when she was approaching fifty, she released her first record. At a time when the Nova Cançó movement was becoming an important expression of Catalan cultural identity, Teresa brought something different to the stage. She brought the experience of an entire generation that had lived through war, defeat, exile and resistance. Her younger colleagues affectionately called her L'Àvia de la Nova Cançó, the Grandmother of the Nova Cançó. She set poems by Catalan writers to music, including works by Joan Salvat-Papasseit, Josep Sebastià Pons and other important literary voices. Her music connected poetry, memory and political commitment.
For Teresa, singing in Catalan was also a way of preserving a language and a culture that had endured decades of repression. Her voice became a bridge between generations and between the two sides of the Pyrenees.
Among Teresa Rebull's most memorable songs is El meu país, meaning My Country. The song can be understood as an expression of belonging that goes beyond physical borders. For those who have experienced exile, a country is not simply a place on a map. It is the sound of a familiar language, the memory of childhood, the landscapes left behind and the people who shaped their lives.
Teresa Rebull eventually settled in Banyuls de la Marenda. She had built a new life but her Catalan identity remained an essential part of her artistic and personal world. Her experience reminds us that exile can transform a person's relationship with their homeland without necessarily destroying it. Sometimes, a song becomes a place where memory can survive.
On 6 July 2006, Òmnium Cultural organised a tribute concert to Teresa Rebull at the Palau de la Música Catalana in Barcelona. The concert was called Visca l'amor, meaning Long Live Love. It brought together several generations of Catalan musicians, including Lluís Llach, Maria del Mar Bonet, and many others. Teresa was eighty-six years old.
It was the first time she had performed at the Palau de la Música Catalana.
Claire Fontaine and The Grandma were fortunate enough to attend that concert, and they still remember it with enormous emotion. What impressed them most was Teresa's extraordinary strength and vitality. She had lived through some of the darkest chapters of European history, yet there she was, standing on one of Catalunya's most emblematic stages, surrounded by musicians and an audience celebrating her life.
Every performance was memorable. Lluís Llach's interpretation of El meu país was particularly moving. Maria del Mar Bonet's version of Dona d'aigua was another unforgettable moment. And the collective performance of Visca l'amor, based on a poem by Joan Salvat-Papasseit that Teresa had set to music, brought the evening to an extraordinary conclusion.
They also remember the presence of Muriel Casals, a woman whose dedication to Catalan culture and civic life left a lasting impression on so many people. Looking back, that concert was much more than a musical tribute. It was a celebration of memory, friendship, culture and the extraordinary resilience of a woman who had never stopped believing in the power of music.
Banyuls de la Marenda is also the birthplace of Aristide Maillol, one of the most important sculptors of the twentieth century. Born in 1861, Maillol developed an artistic language characterised by harmonious forms, balance and the expressive possibilities of the human body. His work reflects a deep relationship with the Mediterranean landscape.
Although Maillol and Rebull belonged to different generations and artistic traditions, their lives offer two fascinating perspectives on the cultural richness of Catalunya Nord. Maillol transformed the human body into sculpture. Rebull transformed poetry and memory into song. Both remind us that artistic expression can preserve something that extends beyond the lifetime of its creator.
Teresa Rebull died in Banyuls de la Marenda on 15 April 2015, aged ninety-five. Her life had taken her from Sabadell to exile, from political resistance to musical creation, and from the painful memories of war to the affection of new generations of listeners.
She never stopped being connected to the country she had left in 1939. And she never stopped giving that connection a voice. Perhaps this is why her story is such a meaningful continuation of our journey through Catalunya Nord.
At Argelers, we remembered the suffering of those who crossed the border seeking refuge. Through Pere Quart, we heard the sorrow of farewell. And through Teresa Rebull, we discover that even after exile, loss and decades of separation, love and memory can continue to flourish.
Some people leave their homeland, but their homeland never leaves them. And sometimes, when words are no longer enough, they begin to sing.
After saying goodbye to Joseph de Ca'th Lon, who has returned to Gèneve, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma have driven from Montpelhièr to Argelers, where they have stopped to visit the town and walk along its beach, a symbol of the resilience, dignity, and survival of the thousands of people who were held there in 1939.
A few days ago, The Grandma finished reading Una nena catalana als camps nazis (A Catalan Girl in the Nazi Camps), a testimonial book written by Mercè Sanz. The French concentration camps were not extermination camps, far from it, yet they were still places of suffering. Often, the stories of those who survived them remain overshadowed by the atrocities recounted by survivors of the Nazi camps.
The Grandma has been reflecting on the lives of the thousands upon thousands of Catalans who, while they did not leave their country (having simply walked from the south to the north), left their homes behind, fighting first to stay alive, and later to begin life anew.
Walking across the sand of this beach in Argelers is a way to remember and pay tribute to each and every person who was held captive here, people who fought not only for their lives, but also for their dignity.
The Grandma wants to talk about the Republican exile, the concentration camps and the extraordinary human struggle for dignity, resistance and survival.
Up to 15,000 people would end up losing their lives in the French camps between 1939 and 1945.
Today, Argelers is a peaceful Mediterranean town in Catalunya Nord, known for its long sandy beaches, beautiful landscapes and warm summer days. However, beneath this peaceful landscape lies one of the most painful chapters in contemporary Catalan and European history. They had lost their homes, their possessions and, in many cases, their relatives. But they had not lost their humanity.
On 26 January 1939, Barcelona fell to Franco's forces. The defeat of the Republican army in Catalunya triggered one of the largest refugee movements in twentieth-century European history. During the following weeks, approximately half a million people crossed the French border in what became known as La Retirada, the Retreat. Among them were Republican soldiers, political activists, intellectuals, teachers, workers, elderly people and thousands of children. Many crossed the mountains on foot, carrying whatever they could save. Some were wounded. Others were sick, hungry or exhausted. Families were separated during the journey, and many people never saw their loved ones again.
For Catalan refugees, crossing the Pyrenees meant travelling from Southern Catalunya to Northern Catalunya, territories that shared centuries of history, culture and language but were separated by an international border. They hoped to find safety. Instead, many discovered that their suffering was far from over.
In early February 1939, the French authorities established a concentration camp on the beach at Argelers. There were initially no proper barracks, adequate sanitation facilities or sufficient medical services. Thousands of refugees were confined behind barbed wire, exposed to the winter cold, the wind and the rain.
The Mediterranean Sea, traditionally associated with freedom and movement, became part of a landscape of confinement. People slept directly on the sand, sometimes digging holes to protect themselves from the wind. Food was insufficient, clean water was scarce, and disease spread rapidly. Lice, scabies, malnutrition and infections became part of everyday life.
Some refugees died from illness, exposure and the consequences of these appalling conditions. Others survived through mutual assistance, solidarity and an extraordinary determination to remain alive. The camp was established by the French Republic, not by Nazi Germany. This distinction matters historically. Argelers was not a Nazi extermination camp, and it was not designed for industrialised mass murder. Nevertheless, it was a place of forced confinement where people who had escaped persecution were subjected to degrading and sometimes deadly conditions. The suffering of human beings should never be forgotten simply because it occurred outside the most notorious places of twentieth-century history.
Among the many personal stories connected with the Republican exile is that of Mercè Sanz i Castells, born in Lleida in 1933. She was only six years old when she crossed the Pyrenees with her older brother in 1939. Her father had been a Republican schoolteacher, and the collapse of Republican Catalunya forced the children into exile. What followed was a childhood marked by separation, fear and suffering.
According to her later testimony, she was initially taken in by a family in France before being interned and subsequently transferred through concentration camps under Nazi control. She recalled hunger, violence, painful medical procedures and the constant fear of death.
Her experiences were eventually recorded in Una nena catalana als camps nazis (A Catalan Girl in the Nazi Camps), published in 2015. For decades, Mercè found it extremely difficult to speak about her childhood. Her memories were fragmented and traumatic, and she could not always identify precisely where the events had occurred. Her testimony reminds us that survival does not necessarily mean that suffering has ended. Some wounds remain invisible for an entire lifetime.
After the war, Mercè became a nurse, dedicating her professional life to caring for others. Her story represents both the vulnerability of children caught in war and the extraordinary capacity of human beings to rebuild their lives.
The history of the camps is not only a history of suffering. It is also a history of solidarity. Despite hunger, fear and uncertainty, many Republican refugees organised themselves to help others. They shared food, cared for the sick, maintained political and cultural activities and tried to preserve their dignity. Some later joined the French Resistance against Nazi occupation. Others continued their struggle against fascism in different ways.
The experience of exile transformed their lives, but it did not necessarily destroy their ideals. One of the most remarkable examples of humanitarian solidarity was the Maternity of Elna, established by the Swiss humanitarian worker Elisabeth Eidenbenz. There, hundreds of babies were born in safer conditions than those experienced by their mothers in the refugee camps.
In a world devastated by war, such initiatives demonstrated that compassion and courage could still exist. Sometimes resistance meant fighting. Sometimes it meant protecting a child, sharing a piece of bread or helping another person survive another night.
Not everyone who survived the Republican exile returned home. For many, France became their permanent home. Teresa Rebull, born Teresa Soler i Pi in Sabadell in 1919, was one of those Catalans whose life was profoundly transformed by exile. A political activist associated with the POUM, she left Catalunya after the Republican defeat and eventually settled in Catalunya Nord. During the Second World War, she collaborated with the French Resistance. Later, she became one of the most distinctive voices of Catalan song, setting poetry to music and helping preserve Catalan culture beyond the political frontier.
Her life took her through different cities before she eventually settled in Banyuls de la Marenda, in Catalunya Nord, where she died in 2015.
Teresa Rebull's story demonstrates that exile does not necessarily erase cultural identity. Sometimes, distance makes the desire to preserve a language, a memory and a homeland even stronger.
For many Republican exiles, returning was impossible or undesirable while Franco's dictatorship remained in power. They created families, worked, raised children and established new communities. Their lives continued, but their memories travelled with them.
When we discuss the atrocities of the twentieth century, the Nazi concentration and extermination camps occupy a central place in European historical memory. And rightly so.
The Holocaust was a systematic genocide, organised by Nazi Germany and its collaborators, that murdered six million Jews and millions of other victims of Nazi persecution and mass violence. However, remembering the Holocaust must not mean forgetting other systems of confinement, repression and human rights violations.
The French internment camps, the Francoist concentration camps, the Soviet Gulag and many other places of persecution also belong to the history of human suffering. These systems had different origins, purposes and degrees of violence. They should not be treated as historically identical. But their histories raise fundamental questions about power, responsibility, human dignity and the treatment of vulnerable people.
At Argelers, the refugees had already endured the violence of war. What they needed was protection. What many received was barbed wire.
Today, visitors can walk along the beach at Argelers without seeing the camp that once occupied its sands. The barracks have disappeared. The barbed wire is gone. The Mediterranean continues to wash against the shore. But history has not disappeared. It survives in photographs, testimonies, books, memorials and the memories transmitted by families.
Every refugee had a name. Every child had a childhood that deserved to be protected. Every person who died had a life that mattered. And every survivor carried a story that deserves to be heard. Remembering Argelers is not about remaining imprisoned in the past. It is about understanding how easily fear, political hatred and indifference can transform people seeking refuge into people deprived of their dignity. It is also about recognising the strength of those who resisted, survived and rebuilt their lives.
We cannot change the past. But we can learn from it, preserve its memory and work to prevent its tragedies from happening again. Because the greatest tribute we can pay to those who suffered is not simply to remember their pain. It is to defend the humanity that others tried to take away from them.
I ja som a terra francesa, terra d’exili, de dolor, de sofriments, on havíem de començar un altre calvari, llarg i difícil, ple d’obstacles i misèria’… 'Hospitalitat? Camps de concentració fil ferrades, barraques, polls, puces, epidèmies, gana i fred…'
And now we are on French soil, a land of exile, pain, and suffering where we were to begin another ordeal, long and difficult, full of obstacles and misery… 'Hospitality? Concentration camps, barbed wire, barracks, lice, fleas, epidemics, hunger, and cold…'
Last night, after enjoying a fantastic football match and watching the Northern Star shine in the Occitan lands, Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma celebrated the Castanhada and the Martror in Montpelhièr.
They spent a wonderful night with their Occitan friends, enjoying of shared traditions because Catalunya and Occitania continue to have a political border, but not a cultural one.
Musings of The Grandma...
Every autumn, when the days become shorter and the first cold winds arrive, the smell of roasted chestnuts fills the streets of many towns and villages in Catalunya and Occitania.
It is a familiar smell, one that evokes childhood memories, family gatherings, old stories and traditions passed down from generation to generation. A chestnut may seem like a very ordinary fruit. However, behind its hard brown shell lies a fascinating story of survival, remembrance and cultural identity.
On both sides of the Pyrenees, this little fruit connects two peoples whose histories, languages and traditions have been closely intertwined for centuries. In Catalunya, we celebrate the Castanyada. In Occitania, we find the Castanhada and the ancient traditions of Martror.
Different names, different local customs, but a remarkably similar understanding of autumn, community and the importance of remembering those who came before us.
In Occitan, Martror is an ancient name associated with All Saints' Day, celebrated on 1 November. Its origins can be traced to the medieval Christian commemoration of the martyrs. Traditionally, the days surrounding Martror marked a particularly meaningful moment in the agricultural and spiritual calendar. The harvest was ending, winter was approaching, and families remembered their ancestors. According to popular beliefs, the boundary separating the living from the dead became symbolically thinner during this period. Food offerings, prayers, visits to cemeteries and family gatherings helped preserve the memory of those who had passed away.
Today, several Occitan communities have revived Martror through processions, storytelling, music and public celebrations. These events are not simply attempts to recreate the past. They are ways of keeping local cultural heritage alive. Remembering the dead is also a way of remembering who we are.
The chestnut has played an important role in the rural economies of southern Europe for centuries. In mountainous regions, chestnut trees provided food, wood and an essential resource for families facing difficult winters. Chestnuts could be roasted, boiled, dried or ground into flour. They were inexpensive, nutritious and easy to preserve.
In Occitania, autumn chestnut gatherings, known as Castanhadas, brought communities together to celebrate the harvest. In Catalunya, the Castanyada became closely associated with All Saints' Day and the remembrance of the dead. Families gathered to eat roasted chestnuts, sweet potatoes and panellets, small traditional sweets usually made with almonds and sugar. Although the precise origins of these customs are not entirely clear, they reflect an old relationship between seasonal food, family life and rituals of remembrance. And there is something particularly beautiful about this tradition.
A chestnut is not a luxurious delicacy. It is a humble fruit that once helped ordinary people survive. Perhaps that is why it has become such a powerful symbol of community.
One of the most beloved characters in Catalan autumn traditions is the castanyera, the chestnut seller. She is usually represented as an elderly woman wearing a headscarf, a long skirt and an apron, sitting beside a small stove and roasting chestnuts. Generations of Catalan children have grown up singing songs about her, drawing her picture and learning her story. For many people, she represents much more than a traditional street vendor. She is a symbol of kindness, simplicity, hard work and the warmth of childhood.
I still remember a beautifully illustrated children's book about the castanyera by the Catalan illustrator Joan Ferràndiz. It was one of my favourite books when I was a little girl. His illustrations had a special tenderness. His characters seemed to belong to a world where the smallest gestures could become extraordinary.
Even today, the image of an old woman selling roasted chestnuts brings back those childhood memories. The castanyera may be a particularly recognisable figure in Catalan popular culture, but the tradition of roasting and selling chestnuts also belongs to the wider cultural world of Occitania and other European regions. She reminds us that history is not only written by kings, politicians and soldiers.
History is also written by ordinary women who worked in the streets, prepared food, raised families and preserved traditions.
Perhaps someone would call it castanha. Perhaps someone else would call it castanya. But everyone would recognise its taste, its warmth and its place in the autumn celebrations. And perhaps that is the most beautiful lesson of the Castanhada and the Castanyada. Our identities do not need to be identical for us to recognise a shared heritage. We can celebrate our differences while remembering everything that brings us together. A very roasted chestnut carries a little piece of history. Every traditional song preserves a voice from the past. And every language that continues to be spoken keeps an entire world alive.
The cultural similarities between Catalunya and Occitania are not accidental. For centuries, the territories on both sides of the Pyrenees maintained close political, economic, artistic and family relationships. During the Middle Ages, Occitan and Catalan cultures shared a particularly rich literary environment.
The poetry of the troubadours circulated between Occitan courts and Catalan territories, influencing the development of medieval European literature. Catalan poets adopted Occitan as a prestigious literary language before Catalan gradually established its own poetic tradition.
The two languages belong to the Romance language family and preserve many similarities in vocabulary, grammar and pronunciation. Even the words castanha in Occitan and castanya in Catalan reveal this linguistic closeness. Yet their relationship goes far beyond vocabulary. Languages preserve ways of understanding the world. They contain the names of landscapes, the voices of ancestors, traditional songs, legends, recipes and memories. Both Occitan and Catalan have experienced periods of political pressure, social marginalisation and restrictions on their public use. Nevertheless, both have survived through the determination of generations who continued speaking, writing, teaching and loving them.
Today, defending these languages means defending a cultural heritage that belongs not only to their speakers but also to European history.
A language is not merely a means of communication. It is a way of remembering.
Sometimes, all we need to understand centuries of shared history is a little chestnut warming our hands on a cold autumn evening.
Today, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma have arrived in Montpelhièr, where they have met up with Joseph de Ca'th Lon, and where, tonight, the Northern Star has a very interesting match.
Visiting Montpelhièr is always a deeply moving experience for The Grandma; much like Lyon, this city welcomed her years ago when she was studying and working there. Beyond holding indelible memories, it is also home to some very dear friends. For this reason, she approaches this evening's match with a divided heart, though the presence of the Northern Star ultimately tips the scales in one direction.
Joseph de Ca'th Lon has been waiting for them while reading another Astérix adventure, this time Astérix and the Great Crossing.
Astérix and the Great Crossing, translated from French Astérix La Grande Traversée, is the twenty-second volume of the Astérix comic book series, by René Goscinny (stories) and Albert Uderzo (illustrations).
The trouble with The Great Crossing is that the representation of Native Americans could be perceived in either of two ways. In the first instance, Goscinny and Uderzo's undercurrent of you would really be nothing without the French, you uncultured barbarians smacks of colonialist views of white Europeans civilising the wild savages.
In the 1970’s post-colonial world this attitude was still present and so this story may just be a product of its times. On the other hand, Goscinny was known for hiding social satire in his work, so this could be a commentary on the US Government’s altering of their policy on Indian Territories from one of termination to self-determination which brought positive reforms to a previously disenfranchised group. Whatever you decide to go with, the story remains funny, even if you feel guilty enjoying it.
When the Viking's village is in sight, Herendethelessen tells his crewmembers to get ready to be covered with honors only for them to be greeted by an angry booming voice. Steptøånssen remarks that it is their fearsome chief Odiuscomparissen, to which Herendethelessen tells him that it certainly is not a mermaid -a reference to the statue The Little Mermaid in the port of Danish capital Copenhagen.
When the Vikings set foot on American ground Herendethelessen paraphrases Neil Armstrong's famous quote: It's one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind.
Astérix' idea for getting the attention of the nearby Viking ship by holding up a torch references the Statue Of Liberty (which was a gift from France). In response Obélix states I value my liberty.
Key Lessons From Astérix and the Great Crossing
-Mistaken Identity. Upon landing, Astérix and Obélix assume they have simply reached a peculiar, distant part of Gaul or a strange Roman outpost. They mistake Native Americans for unconventional Romans wearing war paint and feathers.
-The Native Encounter. Language barriers lead to a silent pantomime. Impressed by Astérix and Obélix's signature brawl-and-hunt prowess, the local tribe records their feats on an animal skin.
-The Betrothal Complication. Tribal dynamics take a humorous turn when the chief decides to betrothal his daughter to Obélix. Terrified of the arrangement, Obélix convinces Astérix it is time to leave.
-The Viking Intervention. As the two Gauls try to escape in a canoe (which promptly sinks), a Viking longship led by Captain Herendethelessen arrives on their own bumbling voyage of discovery. The Vikings eventually transport Astérix and Obélix back toward Europe.
-Art and Pacing. Uderzo showcases inventive paneling, including atmospheric, minimalist sequences depicting thick ocean fog and dark, eerie nights at sea, alongside dynamic slapstick action.
-Satire and Stereotypes. Like many entries in the series, Goscinny uses playful anachronisms (such as Vikings quoting or parodying Shakespearean tropes like Hamlet) and gentle satire.
-Cultural Depiction. The portrayal of Indigenous peoples relies heavily on mid-20th-century comic-strip clichés and stereotypes typical of the era's European adventure stories, though the overall tone remains lighthearted, high-seas escapade rather than mean-spirited.
Today, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma have visited the natural areas, lakes, and lagoons of Palavàs in Occitania.
Both are passionate about birdwatching, and being able to enjoy, in silence, the species that inhabit a place as special as these wetlands is a luxury and a privilege they try to treat themselves to at least a couple of times a year: in the spring and in the autumn.
Musings of The Grandma...
Sometimes, the best way to understand our place in the world is to stop moving and simply observe.
There are days when the world becomes too noisy. Days when anger, sadness or disappointment seem to occupy every corner of our minds. On those days, I feel an almost instinctive need to escape. Not necessarily to travel far away, but to find a place where human concerns become smaller and the natural world reminds me that life exists beyond our worries.
Palavàs, in Occitania, is one of those places.
Situated between the Mediterranean Sea and a remarkable network of coastal lagoons, this small seaside town offers something far more precious than a beautiful landscape: the opportunity to rediscover the forgotten art of doing nothing but observing.
And observing requires preparation. First, I switch off my mobile phone. Then, I put away my watch. I have not come here to count minutes, answer messages or collect photographs. I have come to look, listen and learn. For once, time is no longer something to manage. It is something to forget.
I begin walking slowly towards the lagoons. The Mediterranean lies behind me, its waves breaking gently against the shore. Ahead, the landscape opens into an extraordinary mosaic of shallow waters, reeds, salt-tolerant plants and distant horizons.
The air smells of salt and damp earth. A light breeze moves through the vegetation, producing a delicate rustling sound. Nothing seems to be happening. And yet, everything is happening.
A small insect settles on a stem. The surface of the water trembles. Somewhere among the reeds, an unseen bird calls. I stop. It takes a few moments for my eyes to become accustomed to the landscape. At first, I see only water, sky and vegetation. Gradually, however, details begin to emerge.
Nature does not reveal all its secrets immediately. It rewards patience.
In the distance, a group of greater flamingos (Phoenicopterus roseus) stands in the shallow water. Their long necks form graceful curves against the horizon. Some remain almost motionless, resting on one leg. Others slowly lower their heads beneath the surface, filtering the water in search of food. Their pale pink feathers contrast with the muted colours of the lagoon.
I sit down and watch.
One flamingo takes a few steps. Another lifts its head. A third opens its wings, briefly revealing a striking combination of pink, black and crimson. For a moment, the movement seems almost choreographed. But there is no audience to impress, no performance to complete. These birds are simply living. Their existence follows rhythms established long before human beings invented calendars, appointments or deadlines. And I find something profoundly reassuring in that thought.
A little farther along the lagoon, a little egret (Egretta garzetta) moves carefully through the shallow water. Its white plumage is almost dazzling in the sunlight. Unlike the flamingos, the egret seems intensely focused. It advances slowly, pauses, watches the water and suddenly strikes with its sharp bill. Then it becomes motionless again.
Nearby, a grey heron (Ardea cinerea) stands with extraordinary patience, its long silhouette reflected in the still water. I wonder how long it has been waiting. Five minutes? Half an hour? The question is absurd. The heron does not measure its patience. It simply waits until waiting is no longer necessary.
Above the lagoon, a gull crosses the sky, its call briefly interrupting the silence. Farther away, an avocet (Recurvirostra avosetta) searches the shallows with its slender, upward-curving bill.
Each species occupies its own place in this delicate ecosystem. Each has developed its own way of surviving. And none needs to justify its existence.
Watching these birds, I think about Ramon Llull, the medieval Catalan philosopher who regarded the contemplation of the natural world as a path towards understanding creation. Centuries before modern scientific methods transformed our knowledge of nature, philosophers and naturalists were already observing animals, plants, landscapes and celestial phenomena, attempting to discover the principles governing their existence.
Observation is one of humanity's oldest intellectual activities. Before laboratories, microscopes and sophisticated instruments, there were human eyes, curiosity and the willingness to pay attention. Of course, observation alone is not enough to explain the world. Understanding also requires questioning, comparison, evidence and reasoning.
Nevertheless, everything begins with noticing that something deserves our attention. A bird's flight. The shape of a leaf. The movement of water. The changing colour of the sky. I take out my notebook and begin writing a few descriptions. Not because I expect to discover anything extraordinary, but because describing what I see forces me to look more carefully. The more precisely I try to describe the landscape, the more I realise how much I initially overlooked.
Perhaps this is one of the greatest lessons nature can teach us: seeing is not necessarily the same as observing.
As the afternoon progresses, the light begins to soften. The lagoons reflect delicate shades of silver, blue and gold. The flamingos continue feeding. The reeds move with the wind. Somewhere in the distance, another bird calls. Nothing has stopped because I arrived. Nothing will stop when I leave. This realisation does not make me feel insignificant in a painful way. Quite the opposite. It is liberating.
Human beings spend so much time believing that everything revolves around our problems, our ambitions, our disagreements and our disappointments. We build cities, create technologies, establish borders and measure our lives through achievements and obligations. Yet here, beside a Mediterranean lagoon, a flamingo continues searching for food without the slightest concern for our complicated existence.
The world is infinitely larger than our worries. And that is wonderful. Nature reminds us that we are not the centre of everything. We are simply one part of an immense, intricate and astonishing network of life. A small part, certainly. But a part nonetheless. I remain beside the water for a while longer.
There is no need to hurry. I listen to the wind moving through the reeds, the distant cries of the birds and the almost imperceptible movement of the lagoon. The silence is not absolute. It is full of life. Gradually, the thoughts that accompanied me when I arrived begin to lose their intensity. My problems have not disappeared, and the injustices of the world have not suddenly been resolved. But something has changed. I am no longer allowing them to occupy the whole of my attention. For a little while, I have made room for beauty. And beauty, when observed without hurry, possesses an extraordinary ability to restore our sense of perspective.
Perhaps this is why I love watching birds so much. They do not offer answers to human questions. They do not explain suffering, resolve conflicts or correct injustice. They simply remind us that another world exists alongside our own: ancient, complex, fragile and endlessly fascinating. A world that deserves our respect and protection.
Eventually, I stand up and begin walking back. I do not know what time it is. I do not need to know. The flamingos remain in the lagoon, the heron continues its patient watch, and the Mediterranean breeze still moves through the reeds. I arrived carrying the weight of human concerns.
I leave with the memory of a landscape that asked nothing of me except attention. Perhaps the greatest luxury of modern life is not having more time, but recovering the freedom to forget it. And perhaps the greatest lesson nature teaches us is also the simplest: We do not always need to understand everything, control everything or achieve something. Sometimes, we only need to be present.
To observe. To listen. To remember that we belong to something infinitely greater than ourselves.
Aperalin soun estendudo Se perdié dins la mar, e la mar dins l'èr blu: Li ciéuno, li fouco lusènto, Li becaru qu'an d'alo ardènto, Venien de la clarta mourènto Saluda long di clar li bèu darrié belu.
In the distance, its vast expanse faded into the sea, and the sea into the blue sky. The swans, the gleaming waterfowl, and the flamingos with wings of fire emerged from the fading light to greet the last glimmers of sunset along the lagoons.
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