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Nick Shutt travelled on our 'Spring Birding in Sicily' holiday and submitted this entry to our writing competition.
Mt. Etna by Paul Harmes
The migration south was completed within the space of a few hours, having flown across the Channel, followed the major migration route through France and darted down Italy, before finally hopping across the Straits of Messina to perch in the countryside west of Siracusa for barely a week. Twelve migrants were expected, together with two expert migrants. Some came already paired; others were single; one arriving a day late, flustered but otherwise in good shape. All were pleased to have made it to their intended destination. The surroundings were perfect for aiding their recovery, having overwintered in the rain-soaked north. There were idyllic farm buildings etched out of limestone in the April sun, vines, lemons and oranges as far as the eye could see, in fact, everything recovering migrants could wish for.
But these 12 were not the only ones journeying with purpose. A myriad of fellow travellers were journeying north in all shapes, sizes and colours. Some looked dull and weary, whilst others were very chirpy, flying fast and high. None could stay long; they had their own journeys to complete. Fleeting glimpses and shared moments was all that could be snatched as the 12 migrants did their best to make their acquaintance in the week they had, perched together, guided by the two expert migrants for whom these journeys had become second nature, and for whom keeping these cosseted migrants content was a skill honed over many years.
Turquoise seas bordered by limestone pavements, deep-cut gorges with soaring thermals, scrubland littered with drying vegetation, busy fishing ports bustling with boats, and virgin volcanic vistas all made ideal terrain for encountering fellow migrants. Some of the 12 got re-acquainted with long-lost friends, whilst others marvelled in new brief encounters. Notes were taken and exchanged. Daily counts were made and experiences shared. All spoke reverently of the mythical Golden Oriole, oft heard but seldom seen. The two expert migrants told tales of ones seen in olden days, whilst some of the migrants scoffed as these tales got larger day by day and hope faded as the week progressed that this mystic migrant would ever be seen. The 12 migrants consoled themselves nightly with the estate-produced wine (taken purely medicinally) to help wash down the vast quantities of exceptional food strewn across lavish oak tables, which begged to be eaten.
About two-thirds of the way through the migration, towards the end of a long day, the 12 fatigued and flagging migrants were roused from their slumber in the vans as an instruction was barked out over the walkie-talkie: ‘Out the van quick! There it is - the Golden Oriole’. But by the time the vans had been vacated nothing was to be seen. Another missed moment. Such is the life of a migrant. Slowly the migrants motivated themselves to try again, re-entered the vans, and requested full-on air-conditioning to recover a sense of decorum. Tomorrow would be another day.
But having grown accustomed to 25°C of welcome warmth the migrants faced the daunting task of scaling Mount Etna with its snow-capped peaks and howling winds. Leaving the luscious lowlands behind, 25°C soon became 0°C (and even lower with the fierce wind-chill factor). Indeed, so challenging were the conditions, it seemed to the 12 that the north-bound migrants had abandoned their fellow travellers for this part of the journey which was faced, conquered and celebrated upon the return to more civilised climes with more estate-bottled wine ...
As the time to fly back north drew near, an early morning meander in the farm estate yielded the briefest of glimpses of a yellow flash that sped before their eyes - surely the Golden Oriole? And so it was, some say ...
All too soon, the last night of the migrants’ Siracusa sojourn was upon them when thoughts inevitably turned to their homeward journey. But one further remarkable experience awaited them: truly exceptional hospitality was provided in an ancient palace in Siracusa, the home of their host and his wife. This last night triumph buoyed up and re-energised the migrants sufficiently for the return migration homewards, where there was a feeling that they may encounter some of their fellow migrants again when back in cooler climes, although no one was holding their breath as far as the Golden Oriole was concerned.
Read more about our 'Spring Birding in Sicily' holiday.