At first glance, tranquillity. 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 settling down for the night. The colours had faded, everything was subdued. Now it feels different. There’s warmth in the air, the reeds are rustling, and everything is constantly in motion. Suddenly it dawns on me that this isn’t a return in the true sense of the word. It’s the same place, but a completely different story.
The morning mist is slowly rising above the water’s surface, and the first light is casting golden streaks across the reeds.
Everything seems peaceful – except that beneath that calm, something is happening.
A Return to a Familiar Place
The route there is the same. A narrow road between the ponds, familiar turnings, a landscape I’m starting to recognise. And yet it feels different from last time. Back then it felt rather confined and subdued; now it’s more open and seems to breathe.
As soon as I get out of the car, I’m taken aback by a sound. The reeds aren’t silent; the wind creates a constant rustling amongst them, and from a distance I can hear birds that were barely audible here in the autumn. The place I’d come to associate with tranquillity is suddenly full of life.
When I reach the water’s edge, everything feels familiar – and yet it doesn’t. The same banks, the same spots from which I took photos back then. But the light is higher, the colours richer, and everything seems to hold more energy. It’s neither better nor worse. Just a different chapter of the same place.
Light and atmosphere
The light here in September is completely different to that in November. Back then it was low and cold; now it’s soft and warm, especially in the mornings and evenings.
Mornings begin with mist, which gradually lifts, transforming the scene with every passing minute. These are fleeting moments that last only a short while – and you have to be ready for them.
During the day, the light is harsher, but it still has a colour that suits the place. Everything has more contrast and depth than in autumn. And in the evening, it calms down again; the light softens and, for a moment, brings to mind that November atmosphere.
But there’s still a difference. It’s not complete silence, more a slowing down after a day full of activity. And it’s precisely this pace that takes some getting used to.
Birds and behaviour
But what really sets November apart are the birds. And it’s actually immediately obvious – migration is in full swing. Suddenly, this place isn’t just about a few species and peaceful birdwatching. There’s always something happening. Some birds arrive, some disappear, some just stop for a moment and are gone within a few hours.
Over the course of those few days, I managed to spot 93 species, which, to be honest, I hadn’t expected here. And it wasn’t just about the numbers, but mainly about the sheer variety of birds that turned up. The waders were a story in themselves. You’d stare into the mud for a while, thinking there was nothing there – and then suddenly it would start to move. The common snipe, the great snipe, the sandpiper… and on top of that five different species of waders, to the point where you sometimes aren’t even sure of yourself.
Then there were moments you’ll remember. The little grebe, slowly wading through the shallows and filtering the water. The great crested grebe, which flies over the water’s surface and sets everything in motion for a moment. And in the midst of it all, you hear the grey crane from afar – a sound that simply suits the place.
The water rail also gave me great pleasure. It’s not a species that shows itself readily, so every encounter carries a slightly different significance. And these are precisely the moments that make you slow down and become more patient.
And then there are the things that only happen after dark. On the pond’s embankment, we literally ‘chased’ a tawny owl around at night. We heard it more than we saw it, but that made it all the more intense. Silence, darkness, and suddenly a call carrying across the water. A completely different world to the one during the day.
And that’s probably the most interesting thing about it. During the day, you’re dealing with light, movement and quick reactions. At night, you just stand there, listen and try to capture something in it all. And taken together, it paints a picture of a place that’s incredibly alive in September – but in a completely different way each time.
It’s not about being in the right place at the right time.
It’s about capturing that moment in the first place.
Photographic experience
Photographically speaking, it’s faster than last time. I had more time in November; here, everything is fleeting and ever-changing.
Many situations last only a few seconds. You have to react more quickly and rely more on instinct. You can’t capture everything, but when good light meets an interesting moment, it has greater energy.
I’ve had to change my approach a bit. Worry less about perfection and be more prepared. Be aware of what’s going on around you, because you usually don’t get a second chance.
The moment that lingered
If I had to take away just one image from the whole visit, it would be the cranes. The grey cranes that flew in to the pond every morning. It always began with a call from somewhere in the distance – that characteristic sound that carries across the landscape even before you can see them at all. And then they appeared.
They would land at the far end of the pond and stay there almost all day. Usually far off, often just as silhouettes or a flutter 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 knowledge that they were there.
And then, in the evening, came the moment I’d been waiting for. The light was already fading, everything was beginning to quieten down – and suddenly they took flight. One, then another; that whole little ‘world’ sprang into motion. Wings, calls, silhouettes against the sky. And within a few seconds they were gone. Exactly the sort of moment you won’t experience if you’re not 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 call in the darkness; then we started to catch glimpses of it. Brief flashes amongst the trees, a silent flight overhead. It was only gradually that we realised there wasn’t just one, but two of them.
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 precisely these moments that stay with me the most. Not the ‘prettiest’ photos, but the moments surrounding them. When you’re not actually taking any photos, just standing there, knowing you’re exactly where you should be.
A comparison with my previous visit
When I compare it with my previous visit, the difference is actually quite striking. In November, everything was slower. I had time; I could wait, observe and be more selective about the moments I captured. The landscape seemed peaceful, almost secluded.
Now, in September, it’s the exact opposite. Everything is in motion, there’s always something happening, and you have to be constantly on your toes. Instead of waiting, you find yourself reacting. Instead of tranquillity, you’re worrying about timing. And instead of a few sure-fire situations, you’re faced with lots of fleeting opportunities that vanish in an instant.
At the same time, though, it strikes me that neither is ‘better’. They’re simply two completely different facets of the same place. In November, I felt as though I was reading the landscape. In September, I feel as though I’m trying to keep up with it.
And perhaps that is precisely why it makes sense to return here. Not to relive 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.
Conclusion
This wasn’t a return. At least not in the way I’d 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 simply shows a different face each time.
And that is precisely why it makes sense to return here.
