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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.
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.
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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.
