The South Bohemian Pantanal: A Return at the Start of Autumn (September 2025)

At first glance, calm. Movement, sounds, life. I’m standing in the same spot as I did a year ago. But this time, the South Bohemian Pantanal isn’t quiet. This time, it’s alive.

When I came here last time, the landscape was already falling asleep. The colors were muted, everything subdued. Now it feels different. The air is warm, the reeds are rustling, and everything is constantly moving. Suddenly, I realize that this isn’t a return in the true sense of the word. It’s the same place, but a completely different story.

The route to the spot is the same. A narrow road between ponds, familiar turns, a landscape I’m starting to recognize. And yet it feels different than last time. Back then it felt more confined and subdued; now it’s more open and seems to breathe.

As soon as I step out, I’m surprised by a sound. The reeds aren’t silent; the wind creates a continuous rustling in them, and birds can be heard in the distance—birds that were barely audible here in the fall. The place I’d associated with tranquility is suddenly full of life.

When I reach the water, everything feels familiar—and yet it doesn’t. The same banks, the same spots where I took photos back then. But the light is higher, the colors richer, and everything has more energy. It’s neither better nor worse. Just a different chapter of the same place.

The light here in September is completely different from what it is in November. Back then it was low and cold; now it’s soft and warm, especially in the morning and evening.

Mornings begin with fog that gradually dissipates, transforming the scene with every passing minute. These are fleeting moments that last only a moment—and you have to be ready.

During the day, the light is harsher, but it still has a color that suits the place. Everything has more contrast and layers than in the fall. And in the evening, it calms down again, the light softens, and for a moment it reminds you of that November atmosphere.

But there’s still a difference. It’s not complete silence, more like a slowing down after a day full of movement. And it’s precisely this pace that’s something you have to get used to.

But what really sets November apart are the birds. And it’s actually obvious right away—migration is in full swing. Suddenly, this place isn’t just about a few species and peaceful birdwatching. There’s always something happening. Something flies in, something disappears, something stops for just a moment and is gone in a few hours.

Over those few days, I managed to spot 93 species, which I honestly didn’t expect here. And it wasn’t just about the numbers, but mainly about all the different birds that appeared here. The waders were a chapter unto themselves. You stare into the mud for a moment and think there’s nothing there—and then suddenly it starts moving. The common snipe, the great snipe, the sandpiper… and on top of that, five different species of sandpipers, to the point where you sometimes aren’t even sure of yourself anymore.

Then there were moments you’ll remember. The little grebe, slowly wading through the shallows and filtering the water. The great crested grebe, flying over the surface and stirring everything up for a moment. And in the distance, you hear the common crane—a sound that simply fits the place.

The water rail also brought me great joy. It’s not a species that shows itself willingly, so every encounter carries a bit of a different weight. And these are exactly the moments that make you slow down and become more patient.

And then there are things that happen only after dark. On the pond’s dam, we literally “chased” a short-eared owl at night. We heard it more than we saw it, but that made it all the more intense. Silence, darkness, and suddenly a voice carrying across the water. A completely different world than during the day.

And that’s probably the most interesting part. During the day, you’re dealing with light, movement, quick reactions. At night, you just stand there, listen, and try to capture something in it all. And together, it paints a picture of a place that’s incredibly alive in September—but in a completely different way every time.

Photographically speaking, it’s faster than last time. I had more time in November; here, everything is fleeting and ever-changing.

Many moments last only a few seconds. You have to react faster and rely more on instinct. You can’t capture everything, but when good light meets an interesting moment, it has more energy.

I had to change my approach a bit. Worry less about perfection and be more prepared. Be aware of what’s happening around me, because you usually don’t get a second chance.

If I had to pick one image to take away from the whole visit, it would be the cranes. The gray cranes that flew down to the pond every morning. It always started with a call from somewhere in the distance—that characteristic sound that carries across the landscape even before you can see them. And then they appeared.

They would land at the far end of the pond and stay there almost all day. Mostly far away, often just as silhouettes or a movement in the warm air above the water’s surface. Nothing “photographically perfect.” And yet my gaze kept returning to them. There was something soothing about it. The awareness that they were there.

And then, in the evening, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived. The light was fading, everything was beginning to calm down—and suddenly they took flight. One, then another; the whole little “world” sprang into motion. Wings, calls, silhouettes against the sky. And within seconds, they were gone. Exactly the kind of moment you won’t experience if you aren’t there at the right time.

The second moment belongs to the night. A tawny owl could be heard around our “station” every night. At first just a voice in the dark, then we started to see it. Brief flashes between the trees, a silent flight overhead. It gradually dawned on us that there wasn’t just one, but two.

Suddenly, it all made even more sense. It wasn’t just a chance encounter, but a place that has its own rhythm even after dark. And we were just a part of it for a moment.

And it’s exactly these moments that stay with me the most. Not the “prettiest” photos, but the moments surrounding them. When you’re not even taking pictures, just standing there and knowing you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When I compare it to my previous visit, the difference is actually quite surprising. In November, everything moved more slowly. I had time; I could wait, observe, and be more selective about the moments I captured. The landscape felt calm, almost secluded.

Now, in September, it’s the exact opposite. Everything is in motion, something is always happening, and you have to be constantly on your toes. Instead of waiting, you react. Instead of calm, you’re dealing with timing. And instead of a few surefire situations, you’re faced with a lot of fleeting opportunities that disappear quickly.

At the same time, though, it seems to me that neither is “better.” They’re simply two completely different versions of the same place. In November, I felt like I was reading the landscape. In September, I feel like I’m trying to keep up with it.

And maybe that’s exactly why it makes sense to come back here. Not to repeat what you’ve already experienced, but to see just how much it can change. The same ponds, the same reeds—but a different story every time.

This wasn’t a return. At least not in the way I expected.

The same place, but a completely different experience. A different pace, different light, different birds. And above all, a different way of perceiving it all.

The South Bohemian Pantanal hasn’t changed. It just shows a different face every time.

And that’s exactly why it makes sense to come back here.