Schools Writing Competition 2025

 

 

The Society holds a Schools Writing Competition every two years. The theme for the 2025 competition was 'Nature-themed writing reporting for a school magazine, newspaper article, digital blog or holiday brochure', with entrants to choose from either of these titles: ‘A Favourite Nature Walk’ or ‘A Gull's Life’

 

We are pleased to publish the winning entries below. It is regretted that for privacy reasons the Society is unable to give here the names of the winners. In addition to the winner's prize, the school to which they belong is also awarded £500.

 

2025 Competition Results

 

Winner, £100

All Saints Catholic School, York

Runner-up, £50

King Edward VI Handsworth School for Girls

Runner-up, £50

Bancroft's School, Woodford Green, Essex

Runner-up, £50

Burford School, Burford

 

 

2025 Winning Essay

 

 

All Saints Catholic School, York

 

'A Favourite Nature Walk'

 

The morning after the heavy rain felt fresher than usual, the clouds still hung low in the sky, but patches of light were beginning to shine through. I walked down to the river, taking the usual track through the trees, the wet grass brushing against my legs. The air smelled of mud, leaves, bark and something sharp – like stone soaked in water.

 

The river had gradually risen overnight. It moved much faster now, full and cloudy, pulling twigs and bits of litter along with it. The banks were damp and soft, the earth crumbling under my wet leather boots as I stepped closer to the edge. I could hear the water clearly, a steady rush, louder than on dry days. It sounded alive.

 

I didn’t come here to do anything really. I just liked to watch. To listen. No one else seemed to care much for this place. It wasn’t special, not the kind of spot you would take a photo of. The water was always a little brown and the grass was always a tangled mess with plastic or an old drink can someone had thrown away. But something about this place made me feel calm, even when everything else was loud.

 

A small bird, I think a robin, landed on a rock near the edge. It bobbed its head, looked around, and then fluttered off again. A few seconds later, another bird followed it. I then turned my head to watch them disappear into the dark branches. I sat on a flat stone just off the path, where the roots of a nearby tree had grown thick across the ground. Water dripped from the branches above me. A ladybird crawled along one of the roots, its red black colours bright against the dark bark. I bent down to watch it for a while, following its slow, careful steps. It didn’t seem bothered by the dew.

 

All around me the world felt quiet, like it was still waking up. The river moved forward without stopping, pulling leaves and foam and memories downstream. It had seen all kinds of things, storms, droughts, summer heatwaves, winter ice, and still flowed. It didn’t rush. It didn’t stop. It just kept going.

 

I thought about that for a while. Sometimes I wished I could do the same – just keep going, even when everything felt uncertain. Things at school had been hard. People changed. Friends grew distant. But the river didn’t seem to notice any of that. It just took what came and kept moving.

 

When I stood up again, the sky had brightened slightly. A thin ray of sunlight cut through the clouds and landed on the water, lighting up the surface like a dull mirror. For a moment, even the dirty river looked beautiful.

 

I turned back toward the path, walking slowly. Behind me, the river carried on, just as it always had.

 

 

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2025 Runner Up

 

King Edward VI Handsworth School for Girls

 

'A Favourite Nature Walk'

 

Whenever I feel like escaping life, there will always be one thing that I will always do, that will never change: a walk through the meadow, towards the outskirts of Birmingham. It’s not some classic trek through the wilderness, but it’s what I call ‘green heaven’, where the everyday noises fade and the natural world takes centre stage.

 

The entrance to the path is almost hidden, tucked away behind a row of old oak trees that stand like silent guardians. As soon as you step onto the narrow track, the air changes. It’s softer, carrying the sweet perfume of wildflowers in the warmer months and the damp, earthy scent of fallen leaves as the season gradually shifts.

 

What I love most about this walk is the constant hum of life. In spring and summer, the meadows on either side of the path explode in a riot of colour. Poppies dance in the breeze, their scarlet petals like fluttering silk. Buttercups gleam like tiny golden coins, and the air buzzes with bees diligently collecting nectar. You can often spot delicate butterflies flitting from one bloom to another, their wings painted with intricate patterns.

 

There is a small stream that meanders alongside part of the path, its gentle gurgle a soothing soundtrack to my wanderings. Sometimes, I will pause on the rickety wooden bridge that crosses it and watch the water flow over smooth stones, catching glimpses of tiny fish darting in the shallows. Dragonflies, like miniature helicopters, hover above the water’s surface, their iridescent bodies shimmering in the sunlight.

 

As the year progresses, the meadow transforms. The vibrant colours of summer give way to the softer hues of autumn. The tall grasses turn golden, swaying gracefully in the breeze, and the air is filled with the rustling sound of seed heads. This is when I often spot families of birds flitting amongst the dried stalks, preparing for the colder months ahead.

 

Even in the depths of winter, the meadow holds a quiet charm. The landscape takes on a stark beauty, with frosted grasses crunching underfoot and the bare branches of trees etched against the pale sky. It is a time for quiet reflection, a chance to appreciate the simple elegance of the natural world in its most stripped-down form.

 

This is not a walk that demands strenuous effort or offers breathtaking panoramic views. Its magic lies in the details: the delicate curve of a wildflower petal, the intricate patterns on a butterfly’s wing, the soothing sound of the stream. It is a place where I can slow down, breathe deeply, and reconnect with the natural rhythm of the world. It is my go-to green escape, a reminder that even amid a busy life, there’s always beauty and tranquillity around the corner.

 

 

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2025 Runner Up

 

Bancroft's School, Woodford Green, Essex

 

'A Gull's Life'

 

At first glance, the gull seems forgettable.

 

Under shifting, kaleidoscopic skies and the rise of the molten ochre sun, they are flashes of white sprawling on towering rooftops or rustling street lamps. They drift between worlds – Earth and air, man and nature – never truly belonging. Rather, they are a species whose survival hinges on adaptability, resilience, and an instinct for the unceasing urban rhythm. Passing pedestrians overlook the creatures; for them it is just another morning. And if they do, they dismiss them as nothing but background noise, like the distant beeps of traffic or the clatter of a fish shop’s shutter.

 

One perches most mornings atop a sodium-lit street lamp on the beach, surveying the rush of human life. His feathers are imperfect, puffed up in an attempt to mark his dominance, exposing the slight curve of his plump, stark white belly. His eyes gleam like polished amber jewels, ever-vigilant to every flutter and flicker, to the bustling world below. To a gull, every shadow matters. He senses the precise moment an egg bagel slips from someone’s grip, hears the buzz of the market, and knows when the first morsels of freshly baked bread scatter to the ground.

 

The warm wind stirs the scaffolding poles like restless bones rattling with famine – a call to the day’s first feast. When the first drops of scraps fall, the flock squabbles in a frantic flurry over soggy chips discarded by a group of students near the pier, wings battering against each other like worn sails. For this scramble is no mere mealtime. It’s a battle for survival.

 

Across the sandy stretch of carpeted beige and black specks, their cries sharp, raw and unapologetic – like metal scarping against glass, jarring the calm. It’s not like the woodland bird’s tweet or a blackbird’s melancholic tune that erupts from its throat. It’s something rougher, more real. A gull’s voice belongs in the heart of the city, where the pulse of life is fast and unforgiving.

 

Just as stillness forms, they all scatter – each one rising into the sky, their wings stretched wide as their charcoal tips brush against the air. They skim above the cigarette smoke, pungent diesel odour, and the steady purr of engines, tracing the city with beaded eyes that snap at every shift beneath them.

 

In a gull’s flight, there is a purpose. In their squawks, there is a story etched by years of survival amidst human clamour. In his shadow, there is a cast along glass and gravel; there lies a reminder that nature and wildlife don’t always bloom in hues of foliage or great mountains. They live a life at the margins of society – not as outsiders, but as quiet observers who have mastered the art of thriving in a world that was never built for them.

 

In the everyday rush, the quiet life taught me more than I expected.

 

And in watching him – the one bird I once overlooked – I realise the power of true strength. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet persistence of being unseen yet unyielding, in enduring without applause, in soaring high despite a world that never bothered to look up.

 

 

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2025 Runner Up

 

Burford School, Burford

 

A Favourite Nature Walk: Whispers of the Willowbank

 

The path opens up like something half-remembered, curling softly through the woods as though its just woken from a dream. I step into the trees and for a moment, everything slows. The leaves above flicker with light, green flames dancing in the warm breeze. The air smells of damp earth and something sweet I can’t quite name.

 

The woods lean in gently, cloaked in dappled light, their branches curling above me in a hush of green cathedrals. Beside me, the stream hums in its ancient song, threading through roots and stone with grace that makes it feel alive. Its voice soft but consistent like the quiet murmur of someone remembering. I watch it skipping over pebbles and worn driftwood, and I wonder if it remembers me – little me, once barefoot and chasing dragonflies, now walking slower and thinking harder.

 

As the trees thin, the meadow opens like a secret kept too long. Sunlight spills across the grassland, catching on petals as if the earth has scattered jewels – cornflowers like ink drops, poppies like spilled paint, buttercups that glow golden in my open palms. Everything shimmers as though its breathing. The breeze plays with the wildflowers, brushing them gently like turning pages in a story only they know.

 

Two rabbits darting through the undergrowth, pausing to twitch their little noses. I smile. A deer appears between the shadows of sycamores, stepping as delicately as a thought not yet spoken. Our eyes meet. For a moment, I don’t feel like the walker, I feel like the watched, the guest. Still, something stirs beneath the beauty, a question, maybe. The stream seems a little lower, and the butterflies fewer than I remember. Yet I push that thought away, gently, like brushing dust from a photograph. Today, this place is perfect.

 

At the riverbed, where the moss lies thick and velvet-like, I sit. The sun dips lower, bathing everything in syrupy gold. Time folds like paper here, each memory pressed between petals, each breath a kind of remembering. I close my eyes. The quiet wraps round me, not empty, but full of presence of past summers, of something kind.

 

When I rise, I feel lighter. Not fixed exactly, but mended.

 

And when I walk away, the wind catches in the trees and carries something soft behind me, a hush, a memory, maybe even promised too late.

 

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