White Stork

The waiters at the more upmarket restaurant stand proudly upright with their hands clasped behind their backs in their white shirts and black waistcoats. The stifling heat of the Extremadura day, even in April, endures far past nightfall. Restaurants and cafes fringe three sides of Trujillo Plaza, and looking down from the fourth is the bell tower. The tower is built for permanence, weeds growing out the top of the clockface, the patina of the aged stones doing the work of a thousand gargoyles. Crag Martins loop-the-loop around door arches, swifts harass the Lesser Kestrels high above the tower. Down at street level cutlery clinks and scrapes against plates, glasses chink and conversation hums. The bread is bland, airy and sugary like meringues, and the food in the restaurants isn’t much to speak of aside from the Ibérico ham and the quesos, but the diners are unfussy and unpretentious, smiling and happy in their animated conversations.

As night falls, one after the other they come in from a day working away in the plains. With deep, powerful wingbeats and legs dangling, they come in to land. Their partners chatter warmly as they return, but they are snapped at if they pass too close to a neighbour. There are massive piles of sticks wedged onto the edges of the bell tower, perched atop chimneys or wedged into nooks in the roofs. Night draws in more seriously and we sit on the balcony trying to put words to it all, the clatter of beaks periodically drifting over. Birds rarely evoke much feeling in me - the thing that keeps me at the work is the contradictions and inconsistencies, the injustices and the misinformation - a sense that there’s something to do and someone might as well do it. But here, without really knowing this place the clacking beaks become familiar and homely; they carry a sense of fragility and innocence like the wagging of a puppies tail. And yet, beneath them sits a statue of Francisco Pizarro, a man responsible for the brutal murder of a civilisation.

We spent the morning out on the plains, the Storks hoovering up the frogs that proliferate from the ponds dug to keep the livestock in water over the dry months. Searching for Bustards, when we saw a Stork we were dismissive. Just another Stork. The Storks are everywhere: on the plains, dotted up through the Holly Oaks in the Dehesa, on the lower slopes of the Sierras with Griffon Vultures circling overhead. A Hoopoe sat on a fence post as we drove past, twitching anxiously as we pulled up to gawp at it, taking shaky videos on our camera phones. Still it called with a bobbing anxiety - hoo-hoo-hoo - a distant bird returning the refrain. Every pile of rock was dotted with a Little Owl, and finally a couple of Great Bustards commuted past in the distance like Jumbo Jets.

By lunchtime, we stop for coffee at a frontier town; Oak-clad Sierras rising beyond, the steppe behind us. We made it to the monastery at Guadalupe high in Los Sierras Villuercas – this is the only building like this anywhere – it is imperfect and absurd, neither aspiring to nor attaining the perfection of a British Cathedral or an Italian Basilica: there are turrets and towers piled on top of one another, half-built arches poking out of the walls, various extensions and additions to the original structure tacked on. The Moors that remained in Central Spain after the Reconquista - the Mudéjar - carry a strong influence over the exterior decoration – swirling chaotic patterns carved into the sandstone and the towers. Above the monastery the sky is as blue and pure as a sky can be. Lesser Kestrels drift over from their nests amid the turrets and towers, as white as Barn Owls against the blue. Crag Martins, Swallows and Swifts swarm above the building like mosquitos. Every now and then a Griffon Vulture, a Black Kite or a Snake Eagle drifts over much higher. Sculpted Yew trees in the exquisite courtyard make a lofty home for Greenfinches and Goldfinches - the building feels like it must be a part of the landscape too, such is it so colonised by birds - only once inside and confronted by gaudy relics piled high like a hoarders junk shop and the cherub splattered ceilings does the illusion fade.

When there's nothing left to write the Storks clatter once more, and those upright waiters tidy away the tables and chairs for the night.