Flamingos, Silence, and the Endless Sky of Divjakë

At first, it feels like any other flatland forest. Then you hear them—flocks of flamingos in flight, rising like a prayer over the Karavasta Lagoon.

Cycling through the national park, the landscape widens. It’s not just nature—it’s the absence of noise, the long shadows of pine trees, and the thrill of seeing a wild jackal cross your path in the morning mist.

We passed wooden towers for birdwatching, crossed paths with shepherds whistling to their sheep, and stopped at roadside fig trees that asked to be picked. The lagoon spreads out like a mirror cracked only by wingbeats.

That night we stayed in a small farmhouse, where tomatoes were still warm from the sun and the wine tasted like dusty stories. We spoke little. The ride had spoken for us.