Already! Somehow, life moves slower and time moves faster in Provence; just how that works has never been clear to me, but it was obvious when we woke up on June 7 that it was happening again. Another delicious hotel breakfast–again at a civilized hour–and we were off, this time to the northwest and the Pont du Gard.

As usual, it took us more than an hour to get out of the parking lot. The clearings and the woods along the River Gard are unfailingly full of birds, and between Common Redstarts, White Wagtails, and the best looks we’d had yet at Cirl Buntings (one of my all-time favorites), we ran up a fine list of good birds and good looks even before we set off on the hundred-yard walk to the aqueduct itself.

Fully aware that our time together was approaching its end, we paid special attention even to the commonest birds, from Serins to this proud Wood Pigeon.

As we walked towards the Pont, Alison spied a Short-toed Woodcreeper, which gave brief but good views–and was immediately replaced in our attentions by a pair of Great Spotted Woodpeckers at a nest cavity. This was the first picid most of us had seen on the tour, and for some their first Old World woodpecker ever–a good way to break into that family!

As the sun rose and the air warmed, a few raptors lifted off: mostly Black Kites, of course, but a pair of European Honey-Buzzards soared in circles over the other bank of the river, slow and lazy enough to get them in the scope for lingering views. This is a species I haven’t seen often, and I enjoyed watching them every bit as much as did the rest of the group.

White and finally a couple of Gray Wagtails enlivened our wait for the star of the show, which arrived as a turquoise and orange streak down the river in front of us: Common Kingfisher. It perched on the rocks in the stream, flying from one to the other, giving everyone fantastic views of its implausibly bright blue back. We’d already managed excellent looks at Hoopoe, Roller, Cuckoo, and Bee-eater, and this sweet little kingfisher completed our list of the “big five” of European birding.

To our regret, we weren’t able to celebrate in traditional Pont du Gard fashion: the candy store is gone. So we turned back to the parking lot, hunger beginning to compete with birding. But just as it’s impossible to get to the pont with anything like promptness, the return to the vehicles is always delayed by one thing or another. This time it was by a flyby Golden Oriole, followed by exquisitely good scope views of Rock Sparrow–we’d had brief looks at a couple on the way in, but the bird that fed on the ground for ten minutes or more was superlative, even showing his throat spot a time or two. This is the bird of the Pont du Gard, and I was doubly happy to see it this year having missed it last.

Not even that was enough, it seemed. As I turned from the Rock Sparrow, a yellow rump vanished into the woodland edge. So we stood and waited, and finally two Green Woodpeckers materialized out of the grass, perching low on tree trunks for all the world to admire.

Fearing that we’d never get lunch, I had to just put it to an end. We piled back into the vehicles and drove to Beaucaire, a rough-and-ready town on the Rhone with a famous castle–and on that afternoon, a bull fight.

We couldn’t linger for the main event, but we watched the excitement as the bulls were drive down the main street by gardiens on white Camargue ponies with their classic trident prods. The youth of the town ran with the bulls as they raced helter-skelter beneath the plane trees: quite a scene, and one we would have missed if not for all the avian interruptions in the parking lot at the Pont du Gard.

Every tour has its rhythm, and this one took its inevitable maestoso turn when I realized that June 6 would be the last of our visits to the Camargue. But once we were out there, sad thoughts were displaced entirely by the birds, birds, birds.

It was Saturday, of course, and so we had to start with a couple of hours at the weekly Arles market, an incredible extravaganza of Provençal products that stretches for several blocks along the Blvd des Lices, right outside our hotel.

It stretches for blocks, but it seems endless: soaps and spices, olives and wine, textiles and cheeses, chickens and hares and pheasants and guineafowl. It’s all more than a little overwhelming, and more than a little irresisible, too.

We loaded up our purchases, added some of them to the supplies we’d laid in the day before in Avignon, and headed out into the marshes. And it was a great day, with new birds added to the trip list and better looks added to our personal wish lists every few minutes. Most of us finally got satisfying glimpses of Cetti’s Warbler, and the European Bee-eater colony Alison and I had scouted performed mighty well. The ponds of the Mas d’Agon were at first frustrating, with birds popping up for one or the other member of the group, then vanishing before the rest of us could get on them.

But patience and careful scanning paid off. We got a new perspective on some common birds: a family of Mute Swans included one white cygnet (a “Polish”-type bird), and a pair of Great Crested Grebes was providing grebe-back transport for their stripy chicks. And soon enough the specialties started to appear. Whiskered and Common Terns fed over the water, swooping low over our heads as they crossed the road. Squacco Herons emerged to feed in the open, giving us the best views of the entire tour. The high point of the day for me came when first one, then another Little Bittern flew across the road, the first time I’d ever seen this uncommon and secretive species in western Europe.

And then it was time to celebrate.

The tables at La Capelière are rustic, and the tableware would likely not have passed muster with the Avignon popes (at least we all had knives)–but I can’t imagine a better setting to enjoy the breads and the cheeses and the salads and the wines of Provence.

Sustained physically and ornithologically, we moved north, stopping for a flock of Gull-billed Terns that gave us a merry run, flycatching over the fields and moving away, away. But they behaved better than the pratincoles of Chassagne, which never showed at all. Their absence made hardly a dent in the great experience of a great day in the Camargue.