The first time I saw a red fox in Madrid, I thought I was imagining things.
It was late, past midnight, and the city had that eerie stillness that only comes when the last metro has rumbled through, but dawn is still a long way off. The fox moved like it belonged there, slipping between pools of lamplight, tail high, unbothered by the human world it had learned to navigate. It reminded me of something—no, someone. A young chimpanzee I’d once tracked in Bossou, slipping through the trees on the edge of a village, watching humans as much as we watched them.
The Hidden Life of Madrid’s Wildlife
Madrid feels like a city of stone, but look closer, and you’ll see it’s alive. Not just in the human sense—tourists crowding Plaza Mayor, bar terraces overflowing with voices—but in the way nature has learned to reclaim whatever space it can. There are the obvious residents: pigeons, stray cats, the occasional rat skittering between alleyways. But then there are the ones you don’t expect. Foxes. Tawny owls nesting in city parks. Bats weaving through the air above Gran Vía, hunting insects attracted to the neon glow. Even wild boar, bold enough to raid trash bins in the suburbs.
None of this should be surprising. Cities have always been ecosystems in disguise. A study in Biological Conservation (2021) found that urban foxes across Europe have developed movement patterns that mimic rural foxes, only with artificial green spaces—parks, alleyways, abandoned lots—acting as their forests. Madrid’s foxes are no different. They know where to move, when to stay unseen, how to survive in a place that wasn’t built for them.
The tawny owl (Strix aluco) is another example. It’s a bird you’d expect to find deep in the woods, not in the middle of Spain’s capital, but Madrid’s parks have become unexpected refuges. Some studies suggest urban owls are adjusting their hunting habits—fewer small mammals, more insects, sometimes even scavenging leftovers. They’re learning, just like the foxes, just like the bats. Just like the chimps in Bossou, who adapted to a world that kept closing in on them.
Urban Adaptation: A Familiar Story
Watching Madrid’s wildlife is like seeing a version of what I studied in Guinea. The chimpanzees of Bossou had their world fractured—farmland creeping in, forests thinning, human settlements hemming them in. They didn’t disappear; they adapted. Some changed their foraging habits, sneaking into plantations at night. Some adjusted their movements to avoid human patrols. Others clung to old ways, passing down traditions that no longer made sense in a shrinking habitat.
Madrid’s foxes do the same. They emerge when human presence is at its lowest, taking paths no one designed for them. Kestrels nest in the cracks of old buildings, repurposing balconies and ledges as cliff faces. Even the wild boar—less adaptable, more stubborn—have found a way, shifting their scavenging patterns to match the rhythms of the city.
The wild doesn’t disappear. It just moves differently.
Conservation in the City
So what does conservation look like in a place like Madrid? It’s not about preserving untouched landscapes—there aren’t any. It’s about finding balance.
Madrid’s Biodiversity and Urban Green Spaces Initiative is one approach. It’s mapping where wildlife moves, figuring out which spaces act as migration corridors, which areas need protection. There’s a push for more rooftop gardens, more tree-lined streets, more places where nature can exist without having to fight for scraps. Even something as small as leaving patches of wilderness in city parks can make a difference.
The idea that nature only exists “out there,” in some distant, untamed place, is outdated. Madrid is an ecosystem, just like any forest. It’s changing, evolving, making room for species that were never meant to be here, but are here anyway.
And the fox I saw that night? It barely looked at me before disappearing between the buildings, slipping back into the city’s shadows. It wasn’t lost. It was exactly where it needed to be.
Welcome to the new wild.