I’m at that age where my eyesight is starting to play tricks on me.

I can see up-close for reading and my distance vision, with the aid of glasses, is crisp - it’s that middle ground in between that’s a bit of an issue.

In some respects I feel there’s a parallel in our relationship with the natural world.

The familiar wildlife just beyond the windowsill or doorstep we know so well: we watch it, feed it, interact with it and it shares our space: the mundane intimacy of the everyday.

By contrast, as a result of the accomplished efforts of so many talented film-makers, we are treated to amazing spectacles from all around the world, to an extent that I suspect many of us know as much about the wildlife of the rainforests, deep ocean and polar tundra as we do the plants and creatures that exist in that blurred middle ground between near and far - the places just out of comfortable reach.

Somehow our collective focus struggles to settle on them.

That has certainly been the case for me: having lived in the Chilterns for 30 years, I have often visited BBOWT reserves such as College Lake and Weston Turville Reservoir - familiar favourites, part of my personal landscape.

But I have always known that there were many others out there that I had probably physically brushed past at some point but not made a conscious effort to visit.

For me, 2023 was the year I wanted that to change.

I challenged myself not only to visit all of them, but to make that commitment  public: there would be no getting out of it.

My strategy was to visit as many reserves as possible on foot, by bicycle or public transport. Those that were only reasonably accessible by car were incorporated into journeys that I would have made anyway.

Fortunately I live at the foot of the Chilterns, fairly close to many of the sites, so by putting my geographical instincts to good use I was able to  walk or cycle to them.

The other important consideration was timing. Some reserves, literally due to their nature, have year-round interest, whereas for others it was very much a case of picking the right moment.

I really wanted to see each reserve at its best and, by putting a little thought into when I visited, I think I did.

I saw the pools at Pitstone Fen bubbling with courting frogs and their spawn in late February; the mass blooms at Inkpen Crocus Field and the snake’s-head fritillaries at Iffley Meadows; slightly later, the green-winged orchids at Bernwood Meadows; the scrub at Bacombe Hill scratching to the collective song of returning warblers by early May; cronking ravens high over the Upper Ray Meadows as the curlews called from the meadows below in summer; searching the leaf litter in the autumn sunshine at Foxholes for amethyst deceivers or the slopes at Hog and Hollowhill Woods for clusters of magpie inkcaps.

From what was a year-long stream of fabulous experiences, it would perhaps seem churlish to elevate one or two memories as highlights – but some inevitably stand out.

A beautifully delicate fly orchid peeking unobtrusively from a wooded glade at Warburg Nature Reserve; a glow worm larva crossing the footpath on the ascent towards Millfield Wood overlooking the Hughenden valley; a hobby sweeping low across the reeds in front of the Octagon Hide at College Lake; a blood red scarlet waxcap emerging from the hoar-frosted water meadow at Lamb’s Pool.

As for a favourite reserve, Hartslock was particularly striking. Admittedly the beautifully clear forget-me-not sky may have had a lot to do with it, but looking out across the meandering Thames to the Berkshire Downs beyond from a grassy slope strewn liberally with the statuesque flowering spikes of hybrid monkey-lady orchids was truly an unforgettable experience.

In total I visited 83 reserves, covering all those in the BBOWT members’ Wild Guide.

At the end of it all, my overwhelming feeling is of reassurance - I suppose, in one sense, that such places still exist. It’s a nagging source of personal dismay that statistics relating to the loss of biodiversity in the UK often reference the 1970s as a starting point: depressingly, it's been the trend of my lifetime.  Against that backdrop of diminished bioabundance, it was a real tonic to spend time in places where wildlife still visibly thrives.

There was reassurance, also, in the sense that nature was demonstrably in safe hands: the management work of BBOWT was evident everywhere, from the laying of dead hedges along woodland rides to carefully-constructed wire cages protecting orchids from browsing deer.

Providing information explaining these strategies at places like the brilliant Nature Discovery Centre at Thatcham; the enthusiasm and knowledge of the volunteers like those I stopped and chatted to at Loddon reserve near Twyford: above all, what the whole experience has shown me, in a very real and personal way, is that in many circumstances nature can flourish in a landscape alongside people, especially if they work knowledgeably and sympathetically alongside it.

It’s almost a symbiosis: an acknowledgement that what is beneficial for wildlife will, in so many ways, from our mental health to the food we eat, be good for us.