Reflections from Santiago Forest to Ireland’s Skies
Yesterday morning, I returned to the misty trails of Santiago Forest near Lake Atitlán, Guatemala. The air was alive with the chatter of birds, but we were there for one reason: to catch a glimpse of the resplendent quetzal. Our guide, Rolando, has been bringing people here for eighteen years. On this day, he led a group of nine of us, each one, amazingly, from a different country. We walked in single file along the forest track in the very first hour of sunlight.
“You see,” said Rolando, “the quetzal only feeds in the shade, especially in the early morning. When the sun comes out, they disappear into the forest because that’s when their predators become active.”
With this information, we kept a quick pace, heading deeper into the forest to arrive at the prime quetzal viewing area.
The resplendent quetzal primarily feeds on the fruits of trees in the Lauraceae family, especially wild avocado trees (Persea species). These trees produce small, nutrient-rich fruits that are a staple of the quetzal's diet. Rolando knew exactly where to find them. As I walked, I pondered this fundamental connection between species—how a bird and a tree depend on each other, how the forest sustains them both. I couldn’t help but marvel at the intricate web of relationships that sustain such a creature: the towering trees that provide its home, the fruits that feed it, and the forest that shelters it.
We arrived by 6:15 am, and that day turned out to be one of the best for viewing the bird. Rolando himself was giddy with excitement and awe. We were blessed—a flash of green and red darted through the canopy, and there it was, immediately upon our arrival: one, then two, then three. They perched in the trees, staying still and calling out to claim their territory. Then they flew right past us, perched again, and called anew. Their colors defy belief, their famous tail feathers hanging far below their stout bodies.
We stayed for two hours in the company of the Quetzal. But we had other species to see that day, so we packed up our bags and moved on to the next location.
Rolando led us to one of Guatemala’s tiniest treasures—the wine-throated hummingbird (Selasphorus ellioti). Barely three inches long, this diminutive bird dazzles with its iridescent wine-colored throat, a shimmering flash of color amidst the greenery. Found in the high-altitude cloud forests, it flits between flowers, feeding on nectar and playing a vital role as a pollinator. The girls in the group were especially in awe of this dimunitive visitor, each time it appeared they giggled with delight.
Before wrapping up our birdwatching tour in Santiago Forest, we made one final trip to a dense stand of trees to catch a glimpse of a fulvous owl (Strix fulvescens), the last bird of the day. Rolando played a recording of a male to attract the bird. We waited for over ten minutes, the chances fading, when suddenly it flashed into view. This medium-sized owl, with its round face and lack of ear tufts, sat perched quietly among the trees, its piercing eyes scanning the surroundings. Its soft, yellow-brown plumage blended perfectly with the shadows of the forest, making it almost invisible at first glance. We basked in its presence for a full half hour, some of us lying on the forest floor and gazing up as it moved among the swaying branches.
Yet, as I stood there in awe, I found myself thinking of Ireland. Of the oaks and hawthorns, of the skylarks and curlews—of what we have and what we’ve lost.
Ireland’s relationship with its birdlife is a complicated one. While we hold a deep cultural and mythological reverence for birds, our track record in protecting them has been patchy at best - topic that was in the media just recently.
The case of Ireland’s failure to fully implement the EU Bird Directive was the longest-running environmental case in the European Court of Justice. For decades, Ireland resisted fulfilling its obligations under the directive. The requirements are clear: protect habitats, reduce hunting pressures, and halt the decline of vulnerable species. But implementing these measures meant confronting difficult questions about farming practices, forestry, and land use. The core issue was Ireland’s failure to properly designate Special Protection Areas (SPAs) for birds and adequately address threats to its endangered species. Despite repeated warnings and legal action from the European Commission, the case dragged on for over 30 years.
However, just recently, the case was finally closed, with Ireland committing to better enforcement of the directive. But it angers me—how Ireland dragged its feet for so long, allowing numerous species to slide toward extinction. While recent developments mark a positive step forward, it serves as a stark reminder of the long road ahead in safeguarding our biodiversity and upholding environmental responsibilities.
Ireland’s reluctance to prioritize these changes has come at a cost—not just to the birds, but to the soul of its landscapes.
What does it mean for a nation so rich in folklore and nature-based spirituality to fall short in protecting its birdlife? The loss of their voices is not just ecological; it is spiritual. What would it take for Ireland to reclaim a deep sense of stewardship over its own birdlife? Imagine the day when we learn that the robin or the blackbird is on the Red List.
The silence of the skylark or the haunting cry of the curlew might not make headlines, but their loss signals something profound. To protect birds is to protect the interconnected systems that sustain life—and, ultimately, to protect ourselves.
As I reflect on the quetzal soaring through Santiago Forest, I wonder: can we reimagine our relationship with the winged messengers of our land? The song of the birds is a reminder of our place in the web of life. It’s a song we cannot afford to lose.
Afterword:
For those of you reading in Ireland, I encourage you to learn about your closest SPAs and SACs (Special Areas of Conservation) and to hound your local politicians with letters if they are not being properly cared for!
Until we meet again
D
