Rick Wright, birdaz@gmail.com, is a widely published author and sought-after speaker at birding events. He leads birding and birds and art tours for Victor Emanuel Nature Tours, and is the book review editor at Birding magazine.
A native of southeast Nebraska, Rick attended the University of Nebraska and Harvard Law School, and holds M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from Princeton University.
As an undergraduate, he taught laboratory courses in ornithology with Paul Johnsgard and worked as a collections assistant at the Nebraska State Museum. In 1985, he was a founding member of the Nebraska Ornithologists' Union Bird Records Committee.
Rick lives in northern New Jersey with his wife, Alison Beringer begin_of_the_skype_highlighting end_of_the_skype_highlighting begin_of_the_skype_highlighting end_of_the_skype_highlighting.
Nobody I know could fail to be dazzled by the discovery of a new barbet in Peru–or by the painting of the bird, the Sira BarbetCapito fitzpatricki, on the cover of this month’s number of The Auk. At the same time, though, I bet nearly everybody e-leafs right past Seeholzer et al.’s description to get to the birderly meat of the new issue: the 2012 Supplement to the AOU Check-list.
My own thoughts of late are aswarm even more than usual with sparrows, so naturally I went to the emberizids first.
The linear sequence of the Spizella sparrows, subject of an oddly half-hearted proposal this time around, also remains unchanged (that proposal summarizes research that purports to show, interestingly, that the closest relative of Worthen’s Sparrow is not the look-alike Field Sparrow but rather Brewer’s Sparrow).
But there are still some sparrow changes. The tropical “cardinals” of the genus Paroaria are kicked out of Emberizidae and moved to the tanager family Thraupidae, a taxon well on its way to becoming the next catch-all.
US birders will sit up and take note at the new and slightly ungainly genus name coined for the Sage Sparrow(s); it–or they—are henceforth members of the (provisionally) monotypic genus Artemisiospiza, while the Black-throated Sparrow now shares Amphispiza with only the Five-striped Sparrow. The only “splits” among the emberizids are the recognition of two new Arremon brush-finches, both formerly considered conspecific with South America’s Stripe-headed Brush-Finch; the North American committee agrees with the decision of its South American counterpart in recognizing as distinct the “new” Costa Rican and Black-headed Brush-Finches (and in retaining the hyphen).
The other species-level splits affect two seabirds and a raptor. Galapagos Shearwater, formally described 125 years ago by Robert Ridgway, is once again recognized as a species separate from Audubon’s Shearwater. A much-bruited change is the split of the old Xantus’s Murrelet into a northern and a southern species, Guadalupe Murrelet and Scripps’s Murrelet; these two have been well illustrated in the field guides for decades now, and birders fortunate enough to be out in places where they’re possible already routinely distinguish the two.
Equally anticipated is the recognition that the former Gray Hawk in fact represents two species, a reasonable view that has been taken at regular intervals over the past two centuries. Unfortunately, and in sad contrast to the sensible naming practice adopted for the “new” murrelets, the Committee muffed it in assigning English names to these two tropical raptors. Priority requires that the scientific name nitidus go with the southern species, the Gray-lined Hawk, but the AOU retained the English name Gray Hawk for the northern birds (now Buteo plagiatus). The historical record for Mexico and the southwest United States is full of mentions of Gray HawkButeo nitidus, a name combination that with the publication of this supplement no longer makes sense and is likely to be a source of perennial confusion. Notably, regrettably, the Committee rejected a proposal to assign the northern species the English name “Ashy Hawk,” which would have been a good step towards avoiding at least future confusion.
The Supplement makes another nine changes to English names. Most are simple and straightforward–easy enough to learn to say Indian Peafowl or Island Canary. Trudeau’s mysterious tern is now officially Snowy-crowned Tern, and Solander has lost his petrel, now named Providence Petrel. Like most history-minded birders, I was happy to see that this apparent hostility to the English patronym was not extended to the newly described Puffinus bryani, Bryan’s Shearwater.
Taking a broader view, name changes and splits are perhaps the least interesting of the Supplement’s determinations. If we really want to understand more about the relationships between avian taxa, we need to look at the higher levels of classification; there are some real eye-openers this time around. Birders from the Great Plains west will be especially interested this time of year in the move of the Calliope Hummingbird out of its prettily named genus Stellula and and into Selasphorus; as the proposal noted, this is no surprise to “anyone who knows Calliope Hummingbird.”
A change in the opposite direction takes place among the wrens: Carolina Wren is now all alone in Thryothorus, its former fellows there now spread among three resurrected genera that the linear sequence places closer to the cactus wrens than to Carolina.
Two other venerable and familiar genera have also been revised in ways that will take some getting used to. The nightjar genus Caprimulgus, a name reaching all the way back to the authoritative 1758 edition of Linnaeus, has been divvied up such that it is now entirely unrepresented in North America. “Our” old Caprimulgus species are now members of the genus Antrostomus, erected by Bonaparte in 1838 with reference to the Chuck-will’s widow and the Eastern Whip-poor-will. I’ll miss being able to initiate new birders into the meanings and the (partly contrived) mythology of the old name, but Bonaparte’s coinage isn’t half bad, either: if you’ve ever handled one, you know how like a gaping cavern the mouths of our goatsuckers are.
It’s a red-letter day for most of us when we actually see an Antrostomus nightjar, but the revision of the genus Carpodacus will affect most North American birders every time they look out the window. Cassin’s, Purple, and House Finches are apparently not closely enough related to the classic rosefinches to be considered congeneric with them any longer; Swainson’s 1837 Haemorhous has been revived to accommodate the North American breeders. I have to admit that I don’t know what the Swainsonian name means etymologically; the closest I can come is “blood-red like the sumac,” but corrections and conjectures welcome.
Perhaps the most revealing–and for birders perhaps the most jarring–of all the changes put forth in this Supplement is the move of the falconids and the parrots to a new position between the woodpeckers and the passeriform birds, a change made last year by the South American committee. No longer will the woodpeckers occupy the center of the field guides, and no longer will the falcons and caracaras follow immediately on the similar, but only rather distantly related, hawks and kites. The research cited in justification of this move suggests that the branch now believed to include the falcons, the parrots, and the songbirds may aso be shared by the seriemas, of all things. I’ll certainly be looking at all these birds differently now.
And that’s the fun of the annual Supplement, isn’t it? New names shift our thinking, new classifications jar our settled impressions. A very good thing.
To have a seagull take flight from your hands or watch a squirrel scamper up a tree or see a seal making its way through the surf to return back to its natural habitat after spending days, weeks or months caring for it is indescribable. If you were to ask me I would have to argue that yes it is all worthwhile. And more importantly, it is the right thing to do, no matter what the cost. – Michael P. Belanger
I’m all in favor of sentiment, and I believe firmly that live animals are better than dead ones.
And I believe that “wildlife rehabilitation” is profoundly wrong.
There’s a lot amiss in our world. Birds die all the time. More and more of them die as the direct result of some human action.
But what makes more sense: putting in days and nights to nurse a baby Blue Jay back to health, or taking the same time to talk to your city council about eradicating feral cats? Paying a vet to set the broken wing of a cardinal, or donating that money to saving habitat? Weeping over a crippled raccoon, or dedicating that good will and great effort to actual conservation?
For some years now, I’ve carefully confirmed that any organization I donate to has no involvement with this sort of thing. I’m glad that it gives people like our Mr. Belanger an “indescribable” feeling, but it’s not the right thing to do.
The scientific names of the saw-billed ducks lead in all sorts of interesting directions. Take the Hooded Merganser, possibly the loveliest of a very lovely group of birds; its current genus name, Lophodytes, is as pleasant to say as it is meaningful.
“Lophos” is from the Greek word for crest, and “dytes” means “digger, diver.” So our cute little hoodie is a crested diver, a point only reinforced by the specific epithet cucullatus, meaning, well, hooded, or cowled.
There are somewhere between many and gazillions of birds with loph- in their name somewhere, and cucullatus/a/um is nearly as frequent. The “dytes” part is more interesting. Two penguin species–the consummate divers–share the genus Aptenodytes, meaning “wingless diver,” and the name “troglodytes,” familiar even to many non-birders as the genus name of the mouse-like wrens, has also been applied to species and subspecies of nightjars, swifts, waxbills, and cisticolas, each of which typically (and sometimes maddeningly) disappears from the birder’s view by diving into the darkness.
The other bird in the photo above is a drake Red-breasted Merganser, Mergus serrator. “Serrator” is easy enough to figure out: like the English word “serrated,” it has to do with “serra” or “secra,” a toothed saw, in reference to the pointed projections on mergansers’ bills, which help them hold on their slippery prey. Oddly enough, “serrator” is rumored to also be an obsolete English name for the Ivory Gull–I don’t believe it, or even understand it, but such are the things one can run across on the internet.
Mergus, the genus to which all other mergansers but the Smew are assigned (and that’s simply Mergellus, a little teeny tiny Mergus) is a bit more mysterious. The word is obviously related to the Latin “mergo,” “I dive,” on the same impulse as “dytes” (and the old genus name for the loons, Urinator).
But it is only recently that the noun “mergus” has been restricted in meaning to the mergansers. In Antiquity, the word referred to a number of ill-defined, perhaps unidentifiable waterbirds; Arnott notes that Pliny used “mergus” to translate Aristotle’s Aithyia, which is used nowadays (in a slightly different spelling) as the genus name for the pochards. To heap confusion onto mix-up, Arnott concludes (quite cogently) that Pliny and a few later Latin writers used “mergus” to denote the Great Cormorant, while in many other cases the name means simply “diving piscivore,” perhaps including Great Black-backed and Yellow-legged Gulls.
The name “merganser” (which doubles as the specific epithet of the Common Merganser or Goosander) is easily analyzed as a combination of Latin “mergus” and “anser,” meaning goose; it apparently first appeared in the neo-Latin of Conrad Gesner’s Historia animalium.
Gesner’s cut is plainly of a Common Merganser, but in its earliest English usage, the word “merganser” was explicitly restricted to the Red-breasted Merganser.Sir Thomas Browne wrote in 1668 that the “gossander… is a large well colored and marked diving fowle most answering [closely corresponding to] the Merganser.” It seems to have taken nearly two centuries for the name to be applied more generally to all the saw-bills–first, apparently, by MacGillivray in his History of British Birds. Charmingly and sensibly and perhaps slyly, MacGillivray suggested that the larger species be called “merganser” and the smaller “merganas,” “diving duck.”
The species names of most of the remaining Mergus mergansers are fairly straightforward. The extinct Auckland Merganser went by the name australis, “southern,” a reference to its range. Miocene miscellus, described from a Virginia specimen, shows a mixture–a miscellany, as it were–of primitive and derived characters, while the European Mergus connectens, a Pleistocene species, “links” other species. The Chinese, or Scaly-sided Merganser is named simply squamatus, “scaly.”
The critically endangered Brazilian Merganserhas the most descriptive name of all its relatives. Mergus octosetaceus was named by Vieillot in 1817; the French name he gives it, harle à huit brins, reveals the meaning of the scientific epithet: this species, writes Vieillot, has a crest comprising eight narrow vaneless feathers.
Great name, that one; but eight years later, Vieillot, having discovered that the crest in other specimens was made of more than eight feathers, changed both the vernacular and the scientific name, this time giving it the equally logical but inestimably more colorless name brasilianus.
The change created a confusion that persisted for nearly a century, with various authorities going back and forth over the years between some form (often enough mangled) of octosetaceus and brasilianus/brasiliensis. In 1850, Pucheran proposed a new, or rather an old, epithet, lophotes, which he had discovered on the label prepared by Cuvier and attached to Vieillot’s type specimen in Paris; Pucheran also took the opportunity to propose for the first time the synonymization of Latham’s Mergus fuscus. But Pucheran’s new name was pushing the idea of priority too far, and Vieillot’s (inaccurate!) octosetaceus has prevailed.
Pucheran’s–or Cuvier’s–specific name for this rare bird takes us back to the beginning: “lophotes” means simply “crested,” from the same word that gave us Lophodytes. Next time you’re standing around balancing a drink and a horse doover, try some of this stuff out on the other guests: you may never have to worry about being asked out again.
By the way, who doesn’t love the Biodiversity Heritage Library? It’s impossible not to while away an entire day following even the most whimsical thread.
I can remember to the day learning to identify this bird–a White-rumped Sandpiper, photographed yesterday at Sandy Hook. It was at a shorebird workshop in Nebraska in the 1970s, conducted by Mary Tremaine, and it was a real eye-opener: Dr. Tremaine gave us all mimeographed pages introducing a strange and new way to identify shorebirds, using not plumage characters but shape and structure. She even produced a dichotomous key, with such odd choices as “More bird behind legs” and “More bird ahead of legs.”
All very conventional nowadays, though we have more precise, less impressionistic ways of talking about wing projection and such. But remember: this was thirty years before The Shorebird Guide, twenty years before The New Approach, nearly a decade before the National Geographic Guide. Mary Tremaine was way, way ahead of her time, and I’ve often regretted not getting to spend more time at her figurative feet when I was a young birder.
As near as I can tell, she is quite forgotten today, a common enough fate for not-quite-famous birders who lived and died in a pre-internet age. Google turns up the odd citation here and there, but nowhere, so far as I know, did she publish any sustained work on identification techniques. If she had, we’d be talking about her today as a pioneer in modern birding.
Moonset over the hills and sea–from my patio at our Manciano hotel.
Just about the time I’m finally able to tune out the endless tooting of the local Scops Owls, a Common Nightingale bursts into song outside the window, or an insomniac Common Cuckoo reminds me to look at the clock it imitates so convincingly. If I’m lucky, I drift off just in time to be roused by the pre-dawn warbling of Golden Orioles. But by the time a few minutes later the Cirl Buntings are buzzing and the Hoopoes whooping, there’s just no point in lying abed any longer, and I rise to the bright and bird-filled skies of another Tuscan morning.
What keeps me up as much as the birds of the night is the anticipation of the new day afield. Our 2011 tour of the hills, seashore, islands, and mountains of Tuscany found each day better than the one before, starting with our first stroll through the ancient ruins of Vulci and ending with our final days among the wild peaks of the Apennines and Apuan Alps. Every day and every new landscape produced surprising sights and unprecedented experiences: where but in Tuscany could we see European Bee-eaters nesting in the ruins of a Roman villa, Squacco Herons patrolling grassy paths, and Hoopoes bouncing implausibly across a newly mown hotel lawn?
The click was almost audible when our congenial group met on a fine bright afternoon in Rome. We drove north on the ancient Via Aurelia, lined with Barn Swallows, Common Magpies, European Starlings, and Hooded Crows; the first life birds came as we turned in to the archeological park of Vulci, where our arrival was celebrated by Crested Larks and Hoopoes flopping across the fields. Nightingales, Blackcaps, and European Robins serenaded us as we walked the Roman road among palaces and triumphal arches built on the site of an even older Etruscan city.
The famous cryptoporticus of Vulci.
Our comfortable hotel awaited us in Manciano, and as we dined on the first of several exquisite Tuscan meals in the dining room, the local Scops Owls tuned up for their all-night chorus; we would hear their peeping every night during our stay, but the tiny birds remained true to tradition, never allowing so much as a glimpse during daylight hours.
The next morning set the routine for the six days we spent in Manciano: waking to warm, clear skies and the sounds of Sardinian Warblers, Serins, Goldfinches, and the other feathered residents of the hotel grounds; a lavish breakfast; and finally our departure—at a thoroughly civilized hour!—for a nearby site rich in cultural and natural historical significance.
We spent our first full day together visiting areas around Orbetello, walking slowly past green frogs and bright flowers to damp fields and shallow lagoons teeming with birds. Curlew Sandpipers and Little Stints fed on the mudflats while five species of tern, including a single Gull-billed Tern, fished in the waters plied by elegant European Spoonbills. An adult Slender-billed Gull was among the loafing Black-headed and abundant Yellow-legged Gulls; Zitting Cisticolas zitted overhead and Cetti’s Warblers mocked us from the thickets. A Melodious Warbler was more obliging, giving us the first of several great views of this Mediterranean specialty. So many birds, so much sunshine, and then gelato: a perfect day in Tuscany.
And followed by another. The vast Etruscan necropolis of Cerveteri is among the most evocative sites anywhere; even on a fine spring day, even sharing the place with crowds of loudly cheerful schoolchildren, we found dark, quiet corners where the distant past peeks through and bright Bee-eaters and Barn Swallows dart about the dwelling places of the ancient dead.
In the afternoon we visited the impressive National Museum in Tarquinia, which houses many of the most spectacular objects from the tombs of Cerveteri; nothing, though, can rival the dramatic beauty of the famous winged horses from the cornice of the Temple of the Queen, the epitome of Etruscan art.
We could be forgiven for thinking that the day couldn’t get better—but a Red Kite and no fewer than three Black Kites on the drive back to Manciano proved otherwise.
The marshes of Diaccia-Botrona were our next major destination.
Our flat-bottomed boat lazed along the channel, giving us close-up views of croaking Great Reed Warblers, Ashy-headed Wagtails, and Corn Buntings in the dense phragmites. The short walk to rendezvous with our bus was punctuated by fresh juvenile Black-crowned Night Herons and our first pair of Red-backed Shrikes, surely among the most handsome members of that appealing family.
After a first-rate lunch in the breathtaking village of Castiglione della Pescaia, we returned to the marshes, this time walking a trail on the back side of Diaccia-Botrona; a pair of European Rollers perched obligingly on the wire, watching over the antics of a Squacco Heron feeding from a fence post. Perhaps the most memorable sighting was of a common bird, a very young, still downy European Coot on the grassy path, certainly the cutest of the thousands hatched in the marshes this year.
The next morning found us headed to the massive promontory of the Argentario, where we boarded the ferry for Giglio Island. The crossing, beneath summery skies, was almost birdless, but things improved rapidly once we were on the island and had made the bus ride 2,000 feet up to the Castello. A walk around the medieval fortress led us, inevitably, to one of the town’s least kempt corners, where we saw five species of Sylvia warbler in just a few minutes. Careful attention to the abundant aerial insectivores eventually produced a single Pallid Swift, but the best bird of the day—and of the tour—came after lunch.
A strikingly slender raptor passed by, leaving us scratching our heads for a few excruciating minutes until it returned to give good, close views of a rare and unexpected Eleonora’s Falcon, a bird seen only a few times each year in Tuscany, and not known to breed any nearer than Sardinia. The excitement of that find was still fresh as we crossed back to the mainland, but we managed nevertheless to enjoy our views of a few Scopoli’s and Yelkouan Shearwaters and a dolphin splashing in the deep blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Up to this point our pre-breakfast birding on the grounds of our hotel had been “unofficial,” but early the next morning we assembled as a group to spend a short time out together. Most of us eventually caught at least a glimpse of Golden Oriole, a common and noisy and irritatingly elusive summer bird; we saw five Cuckoos, another bird too often just a voice from the fastnesses, and a pair of Woodchat Shrikes was busy ensuring the survival of the species.
After breakfast we set off for the countryside, stopping to admire the unequalled view across a deep gorge to the medieval city of Pitigliano.
We would return to Pitigliano for lunch, but first we explored the romantic alleys of Sorano, where Common Swifts and House Martins passed at eye level and Blue Rock Thrushes fed their nestlings on the rooftops.
A post-prandial walk above the ancient hot springs of Saturnia produced skylarking Sky Larks and a wide variety of open-country wildflowers. Our visit to the Erik Banti winery in Scansano was almost as memorable for the classic Tuscan views as for the fine wines we sampled.
The earliest morning of the tour found us at breakfast at 7:00 and on board the bus shortly after 7:30 am. Reluctant as we might have been to leave the generous hospitality of Manciano, we knew that ahead of us were even greater treasures.
Siena’s Campo greeted us in all its proud medieval glory, while the cathedral square was the site of one of those juxtapositions possible only in an ancient but still very much living city: beneath the marbled west front of one of Europe’s finest churches, hordes of teenagers played basketball while their friends and parents looked boisterously on. We escaped to the cathedral museum, where we admired the church’s original rose window and statues before contemplating Duccio’s Maestà, the first of dozens of truly great paintings we would see in the course of a day that ended with two overwhelming hours in Florence’s Uffizi Gallery.
Both cities were a shock to the senses after our week of rural retreat, but our new hotel in Florence—a scant ten minutes’ walk from the cathedral, baptistery, and campanile—proved a welcome refuge. Occupying the second floor of a Renaissance palace, Hotel Casci once belonged to none other than Rossini, and two of us stayed in the composer’s own rooms. A welcoming, English-speaking staff, good breakfasts, and free internet make this a place we’ll return to in a city where even just adequate accommodation can be hard to find.
In the morning, Marco led us to the daily market, where we admired the range of products and produce brought in from the Tuscan countryside. More or less beating the tourist hordes, we paid a visit to the renowned bronze doors of the baptistery and gawked at the wedding-cake marble front of the cathedral before walking a few minutes to Santa Maria Novella, generally acknowledged as the most important, and the most beautiful, Gothic church in Italy.
Simply entering the quiet cloister took us into a different world, and we wandered from masterpiece to masterpiece inside the church; particularly impressive was the fourteenth-century Strozzi chapel, its walls decorated with well-preserved frescoes of judgment, reward, and redemption. Giotto’s crucifix (recently dated to the 1290s, or even to the decade before) remains perhaps the single most moving example of that genre ever created.
Our bus had encountered heavy traffic on the way to meet us at the hotel, so we took advantage of the additional time to walk across the Arno to the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens.
The gardens themselves were disappointingly bleak on a warm, sunny afternoon, but the views—of hilltop villas and of Florence itself—are one of a kind. We walked back by way of the Ponte Vecchio, lined with jewelry stores and thronged with shoppers.
By the time Ubaldo arrived to pick us up, we were ready for more peaceful surroundings and a chance to digest the cultural feast we’d been gorging on.
That chance was provided by the drive north to the Garfagnana Valley, nestled between the green Appenines and the spectacularly rugged Apuan Alps. Before arriving at our comfortable, modern hotel in Castelnuovo, we stopped on the wild Serchio to walk across one of Italy’s most famous medieval bridges, the twelfth-century Ponte della Maddalena—also known more sinisterly as the Ponte del Diavolo.
We didn’t catch a glimpse of any demonic architects this year, but we did see our first Crag Martins hunting over the river and slipping in and out of their nest crevices on the bridge.
The next morning we set out for the Apuan Alps, reversing the planned sequence of our itinerary.
The Orto di Donna, a patchwork of high-elevation meadows, dramatic peaks, and hornbeam forests, greeted us with a morning coffee and Bonelli’s Warblers; an Alpine Chough high overhead left no doubt that we had left the coastal lowlands for good. The local marble quarries, some of them in almost continuous operation since the days of the Romans, were quite active, and there was a certain excitement in watching the great creamy blocks and slabs making their way to artists and architects around the world.
A short stop at the Romanesque church of San Lorenzo turned into an impromptu tour offered by the sexton, who proudly showed us apparent fragments of Roman temples incorporated into the walls and pulled back the curtains to reveal works of art usually hidden from the public eye.
We hadn’t chosen a restaurant for lunch yet, so followed the suggestion to try the restaurant Rei della Macchia, felicitously named for the Eurasian Wren; it was a remarkably good choice, and some of us started to wonder whether the plates of delicious homemade pasta would ever stop arriving on the already groaning boards.
A nap might have been in order after such a heroic meal, but the canyons and caves of Equi Terme called.
Gray Wagtails haunted the rushing stream, and Crag Martins flycaught in front of the high cliffs, but for most of us, the moment most deeply etched into memory will be that of the strong cold draft issuing from the grotto on a warm, nearly hot, afternoon. On the way back to Castelnuovo, we stopped briefly at yet another Romanesque church, this time at Codiponte, where the capitals of the nave are ornamented with strange, even primitive carved figures of humans and fanciful beasts.
It was hard to believe the next morning that our tour was coming to a close; the gray, cool weather seemed to mimic our mood as we gathered at the bus, some of us wearing jackets for the first time in our ten days together. Soon enough, though, the clouds lifted and our spirits, too, and by the time we reached the fortified village of Castiglione di Garfagnana, it had become another bright, clear morning in Tuscany.
Castiglione was full of the common birds we’d come to know over the course of the tour, and we added great views of a foraging Common Redstart before our minibus continued its ascent of the Apennines. Our short walk on the high ridge above San Pellegrino took us along the border between Tuscany and Emilia-Romagna, a boundary that meant nothing to the Sky Larks and Tree Pipits lining our way.
We went as far as the Giro del Diavolo, where pious pilgrims still commemorate the saint’s encounter with the devil by depositing stones—sometimes quite large stones—on a pile that has been growing for centuries; our own contributions were more modest.
We spent a few minutes scanning the now blue skies from the promontory of San Pellegrino, then repaired to the village itself for one of the best lunches of the entire tour; the unassuming restaurant claims to have been offering refreshment to pilgrims and tourists without interruption for some eight centuries, and the secret of its success was evident in the extraordinary quality of the food that appeared before us.
We walked off our repast at Sasso Rosso, where a pair of Golden Eagles in uncomfortable possession of a cliffside ledge ducked and cringed under the pesky assault of an acrobatic Common Kestrel.
We returned to our hotel in the late afternoon, with time for packing and a short rest before assembling for our poolside checklist session and a final dinner (and our last gelato, alas).
I didn’t sleep well that last night in Italy.
This time, though, it was not anticipation but the rich replay of a thousand memories that kept me up, the same memories that already have me looking forward to the next chance to bird with all my new friends in a new landscape.
