Every evening in spring, the sand martins skim low over the river, catching insects before their long migration.

Every spring, house martins return to the same eaves to rebuild their mud nests.

Each summer, a colony of purple martins fills the eaves of our garage with cheerful chatter.

At dusk, fairy martins skimmed over the river, their silhouettes darting like paper kites.

Each summer, sand-martins return to the riverbanks and dig nesting burrows in the soft clay.

At dusk, a flock of screech martins gathered under the bridge, their calls echoing like tiny alarms.

Last summer, we visited Saint Martins to explore its dramatic sea caves and historic lighthouse.

During our cycling tour, we stopped in Saint-Martin-le-Nœud to admire the medieval church.

He addressed every question like a martin to his gourd, moving straight and unerringly from one point to the next.

We planned our summer trip around Sveti Martin na Muri to enjoy the countryside and thermal spas.