The road to Srebarna began early on a warm September morning. My bicycle was loaded, the sun already promising a long day ahead. The distance was over 110 kilometers, and I knew it would be a test of endurance as much as patience. But I carried with me an excitement that made the hours pass quicker—the chance to listen, to record, and to discover the voices of the wild around the Danube.
After nearly eight hours of pedaling, I rolled into the village of Srebarna, tired but alert. My first impulse was to head toward the Danube, chasing the promise of open water and endless bird calls. I followed a dusty, uneven road for several kilometers, but the place felt wrong—too empty, too exposed. The soundscape I was searching for wasn’t there.
I turned back through the village, took the main road, and after a few kilometers found myself on the eastern side of the lake. The moment I stopped above the water, I knew I had arrived where I was meant to be. The reeds whispered in the evening wind, and the sky dimmed into a soft blue. It wasn’t even dark yet—just before 8 p.m.—but I couldn’t wait. I set down my bicycle, unpacked the equipment, and began to set up.
The first sound caught me by surprise: a deer howl, loud and close, echoing across the hills above me. I froze, listening, then smiled. The night had begun before I had even pressed record. Soon, footsteps crackled in the distance, and a low grunt revealed the presence of wild pigs. Out on the lake, a restless chorus of ducks and geese filled the stillness, their quacking relentless under the rising moon.
By 10 p.m., the atmosphere had shifted into something almost primal. Wolves began to howl—not just one, but many, from all sides. Their voices overlapped with the deer’s constant call, weaving a soundscape so rich and alive that I felt as if I were sitting in the center of an ancient story. The air was sharp, the moonlight silver on the water, and the wilderness pressed close around me.
At dawn, I recorded again, the world gentler now. The lake stirred softly, birds called one by one, and the night’s intensity faded into a calmer rhythm. After gathering my gear, I returned to the village briefly for water and to charge batteries. But my journey wasn’t over. The Danube itself was calling.
The Danube Awakens
The ride there was hard—rough tracks, thick bushes, rutted earth. But when the path opened and I stood at the river’s edge, the view took my breath away. Thousands of birds stretched across the banks and sky, some I knew instantly by their sound: pelicans, cormorants, herons, swans. The Danube pulsed with life.
To blend into this world, I changed into camouflage and carefully set up my microphones again. By day, the sound was full, crowded, every moment layered with wings and voices. But as night fell, the scene transformed.
An owl called from deep in the forest. The cormorants cried, their voices harsh yet beautiful. Now and then, a swan’s call broke through the quiet, and again the deer’s howl returned, tying the place back to the lake from the night before. On the small island across the shore, I spotted a lone wolf wandering. Its silence was more powerful than sound, though later in the night the wolves called once, briefly, as if to remind me they were still there.
Before I slept, I placed a handheld recorder with binaural microphones away from my tent, leaving it to capture the night’s secrets. In the morning, I retrieved it and quickly scanned through—nine hours of uninterrupted wilderness. A gift, a story in sound that I couldn’t have imagined even a week ago.
The Living Reserve
Srebarna is more than a lake. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and a Biosphere Reserve, a vital wetland stretching across 600 hectares on the southern bank of the Danube. It is best known as a sanctuary for birds—over 200 species find a home here, including the Dalmatian pelican, one of the rarest in the world. Every season brings different migrations: herons, cormorants, ibises, swans, and geese, each adding its voice to the living orchestra of the reserve.
But what struck me most during my stay wasn’t just the diversity of species—it was the intensity of sound. Srebarna isn’t quiet; it is alive, pulsing, shifting from dusk to dawn, from the howl of wolves to the call of a swan, from the chatter of geese to the silent glide of pelicans.
Reflections on the Journey
As the sun rose over the Danube, I recorded one last time. The morning chorus was lighter, fresher, like the beginning of a new chapter. Over breakfast, I listened to fragments of what I had captured, smiling at the memory of the howls, cries, and wingbeats of the night.
By midday, I packed everything back on the bicycle and began the long ride toward Silistra, and eventually home. My body was tired, but my mind carried the soundscape of Srebarna and the Danube.
It wasn’t just a cycling trip or a recording expedition. It was a reminder that in places like Srebarna, nature still speaks with a clear and ancient voice—if we are willing to listen.
