Watching the Monarch Flutter-by

Joan Bennett gives 500 million reasons to visit Central Mexico as she waits for the Monarch Butterflies to take to the skies

We sat in a forest in the highlands of Central Mexico, our gaze transfixed by strange dark clusters in the treetops. We were waiting for a miracle.

As independent travellers planning a rough itinerary we had read about the Monarch butterflies. For half a year they live in Canada, but in Michoacan state grows the Milkweed, a plant on which they and their larva like to feed. Every October millions migrate here for the winter to reproduce before returning north in April. "500 million - no more and no less - they have counted them," said Hermán, our truck driver.

During these months they cluster together in the tall conifers until the morning sun touches them with its warmth. Then their wings unfold and all at once they descend to the ground, turning the whole world orange.

The sanctuary can be visited from the villages of Ocampo or Angangueo, both reached easily by bus from Morelia. Ocampo is the choice for tours, or those concerned for the well-being of their cars. Angangueo is prettier, nestling in a fold of the mountains in as lovely a setting as you could imagine. As yet, tourism has hardly touched it.

There is one smartish hotel a mile or so from the village; the only other, the Hotel Parakata, greeted us with wet paint, furniture piled in the corridor and a sign saying ‘cerrado.’ Our entreaties succeeded in getting one room re-opened. The kindly elderly caretaker brought us hot water in a teapot, we bought a jar of Nescafé and some sugary cakes from the village shop and breakfasted in our room.

A one-man tourist office tries to get people together who want to see the butterflies, but on this February weekday there were no others. Herman and his truck set us back US$40 but the ride alone was worth the money - 45 minutes to do just 6 miles up a bone-shaking road which climbed from 2,800m to 3,100m, each bend revealing another breathtaking view. Groups of school children passed us on the way down - every day they walk the whole way to and from the village from outlying farms.

Herman left us at the bottom of the steep path leading to the sanctuary, reminding us to walk slowly because of the altitude. At 8.45am we were too early. The obligatory guide arrived at 0900 - no-one is allowed in on their own. The path wound upwards, deep into the woods. Dead and sleeping butterflies littered the trail, the guide frequently stooping to lift one gently to safety. Sadly, our meagre Spanish could not cope with his chatter, there were many questions we would have liked to ask. At last he stopped and pointed up into the tallest trees. The tops were almost obscured by clumps of what appeared to be a kind of parasite - massive, pendulous growths, they clung to the trunks and hung from every branch.

That figure of 500 million no longer seemed fanciful. We could hardly believe we were seeing nothing but butterflies.

So began our long vigil in that still, lonely forest. We lost track of time as we sat staring up into the trees, watching the clouds chase across the sky and willing the sun to break through. We tried to ask how soon the butterflies would fly - and gradually it dawned on us what the guide was trying to tell us: that if the cloud persisted all day they might not waken at all.

No-one had prepared us for this awful possibility. We’d come so far. How long could we stay? How long would Herman wait? I could have wept with frustration and disappointment.

Then at last, just after noon, the miracle happened. The sun suddenly burst forth and slowly those dark brown clusters began to change colour to bronze... chestnut... orange... it was autumn speeded up. A gentle pattering sound like rain could be heard as thousands of tiny wings started to flutter and then to fly. They filled the glade and swirled through the trees, they were all around us, a snowstorm of dancing orange butterflies.

Too soon we had to descend to the real world. But for a while the enchantment went with us. As the sun’s rays moved down the hillside they touched each tree in turn, and one by one they released their burden to join in the shimmering dance.

By now other people were straggling up the hill. We were glad we had come early, when the magic had been ours alone.