Non-Fiction Text Comparison

Name:

Date:

📖 Text A: Extract from "The Diary of a Young Naturalist" by Dara McAnulty (2020)

In this extract, teenage author Dara McAnulty describes his experience of birdwatching in Northern Ireland.

The morning air is sharp and clean, cutting through the silence like a blade. I'm crouched behind a cluster of gorse bushes, my breath forming small clouds that dissipate quickly in the cold. My binoculars hang heavy around my neck, but I barely notice their weight anymore. This is my sanctuary, this wild corner of County Fermanagh where the curlews call and the lapwings dance.

A movement catches my eye – a flash of russet and cream darting between the reeds. My heart quickens. Could it be? I raise my binoculars slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. There, perfectly framed in my lenses, is a bittern. Rare, elusive, magnificent. For a moment, time stops. The bird and I exist in perfect harmony, two creatures sharing this wild space.

This is why I do this. Not for the lists or the photographs or the social media posts. But for these moments of pure connection with the natural world. In a society that seems increasingly disconnected from nature, these encounters feel like acts of rebellion.

Questions on Text A:

1. What time of day is the writer birdwatching?

2. Which bird does the writer spot?

Curlew

Lapwing

Bittern

Reed warbler

3. What does the writer mean by calling these encounters "acts of rebellion"?

📰 Text B: Extract from "Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakauer (1997)

In this extract, journalist Jon Krakauer describes his experience climbing Mount Everest.

At 29,028 feet above sea level, the summit of Everest is roughly the cruising altitude of a Boeing 737. The air contains only a third as much oxygen as at sea level, and the margin for error is essentially zero. One mistake – a loose crampon, a momentary lapse in concentration – and you're dead.

I'd been climbing for nearly two months, my body slowly adapting to the thin air and brutal conditions. My teammates and I had established a rhythm: climb high during the day, return to base camp to recover, then push higher the next time. It's a dangerous game of biological chess, played against an opponent that shows no mercy.

The summit bid began at midnight. In the darkness, our headlamps carved weak tunnels of light through the swirling snow. Each step was agony. My lungs screamed for oxygen that simply wasn't there. But something drove me forward – perhaps obsession, perhaps stupidity. The mountain had become more than a physical challenge; it was a test of everything I believed about myself.