We rented Il Nido because we thought other people wouldn’t like it. Small and basic, without internet, the property was supposedly beside a beautiful national park famous for its coastline and migratory birds. The online picture suggested it was pressed up against one of those concrete pillars (common around Sicily) supporting a deserted and rotting motorway flyover. I was writing a thriller with mafia connections. My partner wanted to scrape off six months of fumes from her new job in London. Our daughter needed fun.

“This is a bomb,” said the hostess, opening a cupboard under the sink. “You turn it anticlockwise to go off.”

“Not bomb, bombola,” whispered my partner. “It’s the gas canister, for the stove.”

From outside in the driving rain came the sounds of traffic and sodden animals – frogs and a goose, always in that order: frog croak, goose quack; frog croak, goose quack.

We woke up on the Saturday to the first sunshine in six months. The roar we had thought was traffic was the crash of waves. The sound of a goose eating a lot of frogs in quick succession turned out, in fact, to be the call of wild flamingos. We were, just as our hostess had promised, in a tumbledown farmstead – what Sicilians call a baglio – among the shimmering lemon groves, on the edge of the Vendicari nature reserve; and it was glorious.

A baglio is more specifically a fortified group of buildings around a central courtyard, the stone barn equivalent of “circling the wagons” in America. In the 19th century, armed gangs roamed the fields of south-east Sicily. Isolated farms were attractive targets because they stored a whole year’s crop – grain, olives, wine, tools, animals. The two barns opposite our building were caved in, the stone courtyard was more a sunken boulder. In one corner, a vast cluster of poppies and marigolds billowed in merry defiance. On top of a collapsed roof was a starling with 17 voices, including one that sounded like a falling bombola, tossed over the wall by a bandit, and another that suggested a laughing computer.

Vendicari is small, but it is one of the most important wetland nature reserves in Sicily. In the 1970s, the owners of an asphalt and petroleum company wanted to build an oil refinery here. The local officials, looking across the valley from their glorious baroque buildings in Noto, approved the plan. They hadn’t reckoned on the force of Bruno Ragonese, a local eccentric who kept 20 abandoned dogs as pets, and wasn’t even Sicilian: he was an immigrant from Libya. He strode out to the site, gathered evidence on migratory birds, built local environmental groups into a powerful alliance and, brilliantly, argued that since these birds were migrating (as he had done) from Africa to Europe, this was a much bigger issue than a wallet-stuffer for the Noto politicians – it was an international scandal.

Next came the property developers. Again, the Noto councillors patted their pockets. And again the extraordinary young man swung into action. No, replacing the drained wetlands with fake ponds did not constitute “sympathetic, environmental building”. No, migratory birds wouldn’t be perfectly happy on a smaller patch of land in a cheaper sector – they weren’t social housing tenants. Yes, this is the head of Ramsar (the organisation upholding an international environmental treaty protecting wetlands) on the phone wanting to know why you plan to destroy one of Europe’s essential marshlands.

The nature reserve was established in 1984.

For a piffling €7 a day for a whole family or €3.50 for adults, the entire park is yours. After a breakfast of fresh ricotta, honey and local oranges (all from a Coop: these shops look just as plain as the UK Co-ops, but equal the best London delicatessens for good things), we started our visit on Calamosche beach. With juniper bushes, wild irises, tumbling cacti and the lilting flight of hoopoes, it is a blissful stretch of sand sloping into gentle waves. On the left, the rocks lead up to the Grotta di Calamosche, a cave with a tree growing inside. From there, the exquisite view looks almost solid, as if sealed by light.

It is easy to walk the length of Vendicari in two hours, from the ruins of Eloro, a seventh-century BC Greek colony, past the flamingos, to the eerie modern remains of a tuna-canning factory, where the oil refinery was going to be. For hundreds of years, until 1944, tuna were caught here by a brutal method of netting and trapping called mattazana, literally “the slaughter”. Now roofless, with staring windows and only a crowd of thin pillars remaining, this Colosseum for fish feels as ancient as Rome.

“Did you know flamingos are pink because they eat shrimp?” said my daughter, interrupting my pleasantly gloomy mood thinking about time, loss and tins of fish.

I did not, and I don’t believe it. There’s only so much silliness from nature that I’m prepared to accept. “And what colour are flamingos that don’t eat shrimp?” I said, in a superior tone.

“No colour. The world is full of invisible flamingos.”

The two lakes at the heart of the reserve were thick with these fantastical birds, gabbling and scooping at the water, and coming in to land like badly piloted pink planes.

I retorted with science. “Those tiny buildings?” I pointed towards ancient Syracuse, glimmering in the distance. “Birthplace of Archimedes, one of the greatest mathematicians of all time, inventor of … No, don’t look it up on your phone – phones are banned!”

But it was too late. She had captured another flash of internet. “Hey! There’s an H&M in Syracuse. Let’s go!”

The path around the reserve does not entirely encircle it. You set off left, walk for 5 miles (8km), then half a mile before you get to your ruined farmhouse home, your way is blocked by a private lemon grove. You must not go through it. You are not allowed through it.

We went through it. It was lovely.

In this part of Sicily, lemons are so plentiful and the trees so giving, that you feel the fruit is being forced on you by nature, Breughel fashion; it would be rude not to accept. Of course, you must not add theft to trespass. But I thoroughly recommend you buy some from the farmer: they are delicious. Organic, bloated, dazzling growths of oily yellow, I think they are the famous Femminello Siracusano lemons. Because local regulations forbid the use of wax or pesticides, every part is edible.

After the lemon grove came a path of marigolds, as tall as my shoulder, and wild fennel, above my head. We arrived home at sunset, where we cooked tagliatelle al limone rubato on the bits of the stove that did work, and ate it overlooking Syracuse and its H&M, with three invisible flamingos for company. Here’s the recipe:

Pasta al limone rubato

Lardo or bacon, as much as you want
1 lemon, zest and juice
Scrubland herbs thyme, oregano or whatever you can find. Fennel is good
Pasta, perhaps tagliatelle
Parmesan cheese, lots

Fry the lardo, add the lemon zest, herbs, a little pasta cooking water, and stir. Add pasta. Mix in grated cheese and lemon juice until it tastes nice. Serve under cover of darkness.