Quietly opening the shutters of the hide, I have before me a “lake”, which almost anywhere else in the world would be termed a humble pond. I am smug to have the whole reserve to myself and settle down, marvelling at seeing the same view twice at once, reflected in the serene, mirror-flat water. Each month, I and thousands of like-minded volunteers, undertake bird surveys across the country for the British Trust for Ornithology. At first glance, my visit today appears to be a disappointment. After five whole minutes, I haven’t seen a single bird on the lake. Dejected, I consider moving on, but my instinct tells me to sit for a while. Sure enough, a telltale bark alerts me to a coot emerging from a hidden corner of the lake, and just a few moments later, I spot two moorhens feeding on the far bank. As the minutes pass, a female mallard appears from the left, followed closely by a male who manically bobs his head at her – a sure sign of early spring. Lowering my binoculars, I notice that a tufted duck has appeared nearby, as if by magic. More mallards have emerged and now number nine. They are joined, from my right, by two male teals who slip out from under the sallies and make a beeline across the water. They inadvertently draw my gaze towards a pair of little grebes busily diving in the shallows. Soon I realise that all along there have been two herons roosting in a bankside tree in full view. How did I miss them? The mallards eventually increased to 11 and, interestingly for this site, they are now in the company of a female wigeon, a bird I have never seen here before. A sparrowhawk dashes into the woods and an explosion of woodpigeons follows. Mid-chaos, a cormorant makes an undignified landing before ungainly clambering up a fallen tree trunk, which is half submerged in the murk. A treecreeper calls from above the hide, and I am reminded that in this busy world, patience is indeed a virtue.