We were nearly gone.
Bags packed, fridge humming again in the van, Mary wearing her slightly-less-sweaty top and pretending we were early. I’d already nipped out to check the tyres and make sure we hadn’t been boxed in by a recycling lorry, which we had, but I dealt with it by not thinking about it. We had a loose plan to get to Zafra by lunchtime, find a shady spot, and maybe see if it was one of those towns that lets you breathe again. Mérida had been incredible, but it had weight.
We stepped out into the square with everything on our backs. It was just before nine. Café chairs stacked, bin lids clattering, a woman with a dog already shouting down her phone. The statue of Alfonso IX still wasn’t wearing any trousers, and Mary was still not entirely convinced we should leave.
“I want one last coffee,” she said, already halfway to the café on the corner.
We sat under a fan that didn’t spin and ordered two cortados that arrived lukewarm but did the job. Then she stopped mid-sip and stared upward, toward the far end of the Plaza de España, above the rooftops across from the Parador.
“There,” she said. “On the corner. Look.”
I squinted. “At what?”
“The bloody stork.”
And sure enough, there it was — stood perfectly still on one long leg, on top of a half-crumbling cornice, looking like it owned the square. Massive beak, twitching slightly. Elegant in a way that made you feel scruffy.
“They come back every year,” Mary said. “Same ledge. It’s a thing here. People track them.”
I looked again. “Looks fake.”
“It’s not.”
We sat in silence for a bit, the sound of clinking cutlery and wheels dragging on cobbles ticking under the moment.
Later, I looked it up. Turns out she was right — Mérida is one of the best places in Spain to see nesting white storks. They come back every spring from North Africa, build their giant stick nests on churches, bell towers, old government buildings — anything tall and relatively undisturbed. According to the local government’s environment department, they’ve even mapped them:
https://www.merida.es/ayuntamiento/storks-merida/
“They’ve got their own bloody webpage,” I said, reading it aloud. “Census numbers, historical data, the works.”
Mary just looked smug.
“It’s probably the same one from last year,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“You just can.”
The stork blinked slowly and turned its head, like it knew we were talking about it. Then it opened its wings a little — just a stretch — and stayed exactly where it was.
We didn’t move for twenty minutes.
Didn’t take proper photos. Didn’t post anything. Just sat with our bags half-on, watching a bird do what it’s done for centuries — stand still, stare at idiots, and not give a toss about departure times.
Eventually I said, “We should go.”
Mary nodded, but didn’t get up.
“I’ll miss this place,” she said, which she never says.
“Zafra won’t have storks,” I said.
“Zafra might have air conditioning.”
We stood, paid, walked slowly back to the van. The stork stayed put.
Still watching. Still not bothered.
