Today, I find myself wandering through a landscape that is as unexpected as it is richly rewarding for wildlife. Centre Parcs in northern France, though bustling with families and holiday-makers, sits within a mosaic of lakes, woodland and open spaces that brim with migrating birds in early spring. As the sun sinks low over the still, glasslike water, the place becomes utterly transformed. The loudest thing left is nature itself.
Standing at the water’s edge, swallows slice across the lake in agile arcs, their silhouettes whipping past at eye level. Having arrived earlier here than back home, they skim the surface with precision, calling sharply whenever danger threatens. Above them, common terns weave and dive, striking the water with a force you can hear before you see. Their long migration from Europe to the southern tip of Africa and back is written into every wingbeat.
As I wander from the lakeside into the quiet woodland paths, the evening chorus gathers strength. Blackcaps dominate the soundscape, their scratchy, fluting song lifting into an unmistakable flourish. Blue tits, chaffinches and blackbirds thread themselves between the verses, while a great spotted woodpecker announces its presence from high in the canopy. Even here, amidst the holiday cabins, this is a genuine spring woodland soundtrack.
In the upper reaches of the site, the character of the birdlife shifts. Cherry trees blush pink in the late light, and from the rooftops and lampposts come the sharp, scratchy notes of black redstarts. Here, they are common neighbours, perching boldly on buildings, hawking insects in agile bursts, and revealing the warm glow of their red-rust tails when they twist in the air. Their presence is a constant reminder that this is mainland Europe, where they thrive in towns and villages just as naturally as robins do at home.
But the bird that defines this place for me is the serin. Small, bright yellow, almost canary-like, they fill the car park pines and low bushes with their fast, jangling song – a rapid, metallic cascade unlike anything regularly heard in Britain. Once your ear tunes into it, you realise they are everywhere: singing high in the trees, chasing one another across the tarmac, feeding quietly on the ground. Their vibrancy seems to electrify the whole setting.
And then, as if to complete the scene, a cuckoo calls – only twice, but unmistakably. A brief, perfect note of spring, drifting across the site as the sun drops below the horizon.
This unlikely pocket of nature, nestled within a holiday resort, is a reminder that wildness persists in the most surprising places. In the shifting light of a French evening, surrounded by returning migrants and the vibrant song of serin and black redstart, I’m reminded once again of why paying attention to the natural world – wherever we find ourselves – is endlessly rewarding.
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