This morning, the ponds of Plessis-Brion showed that unforgettable winter face: pale light, crisp air, and the kind of sharp cold that grips you from the very first steps. On arrival, the thermometer was hovering around 1°C. Hands disappeared into pockets, breath turned into small clouds, yet everyone wore that same calm smile, the one that belongs to mornings made for watching.

We were a small group of six, perfectly sized, just the way we like it: small enough to hear everyone’s comments, share binoculars, enjoy a quick laugh over a detail, and let curiosity move freely from one person to another. Very quickly, good spirits won out over the cold. There’s a special kind of camaraderie on nature walks: the quiet exchanges so as not to break the stillness, the delighted whispers when a shape becomes clear, and that immediate kindness that appears when everyone is looking in the same direction.

At Le Fond pond, from the hide, the scene settled into place like a stage. On the water, the ducks set the tone: Mallards and Gadwalls, Teal with their lively profile, and even a Shoveler, remarkable here because one bird showed hybrid traits, which sparked conversation and sharpened everyone’s gaze. Tufted Ducks punctuated the pond with their steady dives, while Coots held their ground, confident as ever, those familiar black silhouettes with a pale bill. Overhead, a Great Cormorant passed with that slightly austere gravity that suits it so well, while a Grey Heron stood motionless, as if measuring time in its own way. And at the edge of this aquatic life, a Song Thrush reminded us that winter is never entirely silent.

Then we moved on toward Le Trou Bouilly pond. The atmosphere shifted: more movement in the bare trees, a closer feel to hedges and woodland edges. A Great Tit brought its bright energy, a Robin its gentle, familiar presence, and a Blackbird its careful comings and goings. The Song Thrush was heard again, discreet but faithful, like a thin thread of sound linking one stop to the next.

On the water, the surprises kept coming: an elegant Little Egret, slim and luminous; the poised Great Crested Grebe; the more secretive Little Grebe; and the Grey Heron once again, like a landmark. A Black-headed Gull crossed the view, and in the distance, a Mute Swan in flight traced a broad white curve across the sky, almost unreal. Tufted Ducks were still present, alongside Coots, and a Moorhen offered that lovely mix of discretion and colour that always feels like a gift. Even the Woodpigeon, often overlooked at first glance, found its place in this living mosaic.

And while the species list grew, something else settled in too: a gentler feel to the morning. Little by little, the early chill loosened its hold. The sun gained confidence, the light warmed, and toward the end of the walk the air felt almost mild, nearing 10°C. Shoulders relaxed, conversation opened up, and laughter came more easily, as if the morning had opened a window, not only onto the birds, but onto a simpler way of being there together, attentive to what the ponds were offering.

In the end, this outing had everything you hope for from a “Bird Discovery” walk: a rich set of observations, a few intriguing details that fed curiosity, and above all a warm atmosphere, made of friendliness, attentiveness, and shared pleasure. One of those mornings you leave feeling a little lighter, with the sense of having seen, learned, and lived something true, at the pace of the ponds and the season.

The Mallard is often the first waterbird people learn to recognise. You meet it along a pond, on a slow river, in an urban park—sometimes even on a small ornamental lake. It has that quiet familiarity of species that live close to us and, without fuss, open the door to the world of wetlands. Behind its apparent “commonness”, the Mallard is an excellent guide: it tells a story of adaptation, seasons, life along the banks… and the small actions that can make a real difference for freshwater wildlife.

In winter, the Étangs de Commelles feel calmer… and that is precisely what makes them so compelling. With less foliage, there are more silhouettes and more signs to read: nature becomes easier to observe, even for beginners. It’s a walk that teaches you to look and listen—and to realise that winter is not an empty season, just a quieter one.

At the hour when night should be settling in, the city lights up again like a stage: halos, façades, parking lots, white light everywhere. During a nighttime walk, a detail beneath a streetlamp becomes a turning point: light doesn’t only illuminate—it traps, disorients, fragments. What if acting for biodiversity began with a simple gesture: giving the night back a share of its darkness?