There’s a particular sort of masochism involved in setting an alarm for four in the morning, especially when the sole reason is to chase a vision of pink-feathered elegance on stick-thin legs. But such is the life of a very amateur photographer — particularly one with a fondness for flamingos and a certain stubbornness when it comes to dodging “easier” paths. And so, with the noble but unproven theory that the elusive flamingos would be best found at the ungodly hour just before sunrise, I packed up my trusty Leica SL3 and its very hefty 100-400mm lens, groggily fortified myself with coffee and set off from Bonnieux to the Camargue.

Now, the Luberon before dawn has an eerie, ethereal beauty. Shadows lurk like whispered secrets, and my little SUV, a veteran of many backroad misadventures, seemed to know the drill: “Hold on tight, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.” And bumpy it was. The road, if we can use that term generously, quickly devolved from civilized asphalt to something that could only have been engineered by a sadistic landscape architect specializing in gravel pits and craters. Somewhere on that path, I came to suspect I would be single-handedly keeping our local mechanic employed.

At some point, as the sky began to blush a faint lavender, my faith in GPS faltered, and I switched to the time-tested approach of “turn left and hope.” Surely, the more remote I went, the better my chances would be for spotting these birds, yes? The theory seemed logical: flamingos are shy, dignified creatures; they would naturally avoid the main road and nestle into some hidden alcove, waiting for the one photographer silly enough to traverse endless potholes to find them.

The stars began to fade, giving way to the first promising rays of sunrise, a gentle watercolour washing over the marshy horizon. But, alas, not a single flamingo came into view. Instead, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into what I’ll generously refer to as the Camargue’s “unique” terrain or the French version of Deliverance (sans banjo music). Puddles became ponds, ponds became small lakes, and my SUV creaked in protest, making ominous sounds that seemed to say, “Are we done here yet?”

For a moment, I seriously questioned my life choices. Just when I was on the verge of admitting defeat and retracing my journey with my pride, and possibly a bumper, in pieces, I finally clawed my way back to the main road. And wouldn’t you know it? Not ten minutes after rejoining the highway, a modest turn-off led me to the coast proper, where — as if summoned by the universe with a particularly cheeky sense of humor — hundreds of flamingos greeted me, practically posing by the pink salt flats.

The sight was nothing short of surreal. The salt flats stretched out like rose-coloured glass, shimmering in the morning light, and there, sprinkled throughout, were the flamingos, glorious and unapologetically flamboyant. It was as if they’d been waiting for me, knowing full well I’d spent the last hour battling mud and potholes just to get to them.

The flamingos themselves were a photographer’s dream — and a comedian’s, really. There’s something delightfully absurd about a flamingo. With their impossibly long necks and curious gaze, they have a certain smugness, as if aware they’re only found in the most inconvenient places. I set up my camera and zoomed in on one particularly photogenic flamingo, who regarded me with a mixture of disdain and mild interest, then returned to its business of gracefully wading through the shallow, salt-crusted waters.

I’d like to tell you it was an effortless shoot — that I captured frame after perfect frame of flamingos mid-dance. In reality, of course, I was too busy laughing at their strange, almost comic elegance to take a decent shot at first. But gradually, as the sun climbed higher, I found my rhythm. The SL3 and 100-400mm lens did not disappoint. Every feather, every slight ripple in the water, and every quirk of the birds’ poses was rendered in some detail.

After thoroughly documenting my feathered friends, I headed to the nearest village, my stomach reminding me that I'd been up since four without breakfast. This charming outpost, perched at the edge of the salt flats, was unexpectedly lively. I followed the scent of fresh bread to a little boulangerie that seemed straight out of a painting. The kind where time slows down, and locals gather for coffee and pastries with a casual joy that makes you reconsider why you live anywhere else.

As I sipped a perfectly brewed espresso, munching on a buttery croissant that felt like a reward from the universe, I reviewed the shots on my camera. The morning’s pothole marathon and near-sacrifice of my SUV front axle had all been worth it. Even though I didn’t end up needing to channel Indiana Jones in the marshes, the adventure — potholes, flamingos, and all — was exactly the kind of experience I’d hoped for.

I hope you enjoyed today's adventure south. If you have a spare minute, please leave your thoughts or comments in the box below the last image on this page. Thanks for having a look, and enjoy your day.

Live well!

M.