After being in Reading for six weeks at a time, I get an insatiable itch to escape the urban landscape and experience the quiet thrill of birding. The hustle of businessmen, the volume of people and the constant pressure of education can get overwhelming; I tend to experience an existential sense of impunity in the town centre, looking at everyone pushing for something more in their lives.

Of course this a totally natural state of being, it’s survival of the fittest whether you’re a long-tailed tit fighting against winter nights, a rabbit fleeing the jaws of a fox or a banker competing against your colleague for that big promotion - every living being exists to sustain and improve its own condition. 

But visiting a nature reserve simply tones the external noise down, literally and figuratively. There is still the fight for survival there, but instead of fronting as the perpetual grind of business, the fight for survival relies on simple facts: find as much food as possible, produce the strongest offspring and don’t get eaten (although it is worth noting, of course, that these are also preferable ideals for humans too). 

By stepping through the gate of a reserve, or any rural place, we encounter a different world. Over the last couple of years I have focused on increasing the number of bird calls that I can identify and I take so much pleasure in being able to walk through a wood and understanding most of the languages surrounding me. It is as if I walk through those gates and am briefed in the goings-on of the moment, by a hundred strangers. A robin calling on a branch beside me, eliciting a response 20 metres away from a potential mate or territorial foe; the seep seep seep of a long-tailed tit, signalling that there is a nearby flock to look out for; the warning call of a blackbird as it hurtles through the undergrowth, alerting others to the presence of a possible threat - myself, perhaps. 

In a reserve, success is quiet. I see a tiny wren on a frosty February morning and wonder “how on earth do you survive these winter nights?” Similarly, the thrills I get from experiencing the natural world are quiet. They’re not advertised or sensationalised, but for me, opening the door to a hide equates to finding a treasure chest - you can’t know for sure what you’ll find, but that’s the best part. In a world where information can be received on demand and certainty is a necessity, going to a natural place is a gamble without danger. You may drive an hour in search of a bird or in hope of getting a new tick on your list, but see little more than a mallard; on the other hand, you may go for a stroll in a quiet park and come across a treecreeper or waxwing. 

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that we can never take nature reserves for granted, they are safe havens away from the hustle of urban life, for nature and naturalists alike. Each nature reserve is a separate world within our world, unpredictable yet soothing, and they are there when we just need to get away and experience something small, yet infinitely rewarding.