B2 Reading Practice Test 3

Walk through an old forest and it can feel as though everything is silent and still. Beneath your feet, however, scientists believe a busy exchange is under way. Almost every tree is connected to a network of fungi, whose microscopic threads wrap around roots and spread through the soil, sometimes linking trees that stand dozens of metres apart. The idea that these networks allow trees to share resources and even send warnings has captured public imagination, but the reality is more complicated than the headlines suggest. The fungal partnership itself is not in doubt. In exchange for sugars produced by the tree through photosynthesis, the fungus supplies water and minerals such as phosphorus, which it can extract from the soil far more efficiently than roots can. For most forest trees, this relationship is not a luxury but a necessity, and seedlings that grow without it tend to struggle. The more exciting claim emerged in the late 1990s, when a Canadian forest researcher, Suzanne Simard, reported experiments using tracer carbon. She found that carbon moved between neighbouring trees of different species, and she suggested that larger, older trees might support shaded seedlings through the fungal threads. Popular books and documentaries soon described forests as cooperative communities, with "mother trees" nursing their young. Many of Simard's colleagues, however, urge caution. Some argue that the amounts of carbon transferred in experiments are small and may be of little benefit to seedlings in natural conditions. Others point out that fungi are not passive pipelines; they may be keeping most of the sugar for themselves, which would make the network less a gift economy than a market in which the fungus drives a hard bargain. A review published in 2023 concluded that several widely repeated statements, including that mother trees deliberately feed their offspring, were not yet supported by enough evidence. None of this makes the forest less fascinating. If anything, the debate illustrates how science works: a striking early finding attracts attention, then is tested, challenged and refined. What most researchers do accept is that soil fungi shape forests in powerful ways, and that cutting down woodland disturbs far more than the trees above ground. Whether we call it communication or simply chemistry, the hidden network deserves a place in any conversation about protecting forests.

Few places attract as many families as the zoo, and few attract as much criticism. For some people, a zoo is a place where children fall in love with wildlife and where endangered species are protected from extinction. For others, it is a relic from a time when people thought nothing of keeping wild animals in confinement for entertainment. The truth lies somewhere between these extremes, which is why the debate continues. Supporters of modern zoos begin with conservation. They point to the Arabian oryx, a graceful desert antelope that disappeared from the wild in the early 1970s. Animals kept in captivity, however, were bred carefully, and from the 1980s onward some were returned to protected areas in Oman, where the species survives today. Without zoo breeding programmes, defenders argue, such rescues would have been impossible. They also say that zoos fund research and education, and that a child who has stood a few metres from a giraffe is more likely to care about the animal's future than one who has only seen it on a screen. Critics respond that these success stories are the exception. Only a small proportion of zoo animals belong to species that are ever released into the wild, and many are kept simply because they are popular with visitors. Some animals, such as elephants and polar bears, need enormous territories, and campaigners claim that no enclosure can truly meet their needs. Signs of stress, such as repeatedly pacing back and forth, are well documented in a number of species. Money spent on zoos, they argue, would be better used to protect habitats where animals live naturally. Some zoo directors acknowledge part of this criticism. A growing number of institutions have stopped keeping the largest species, or have moved them to spacious sanctuaries, and have concentrated instead on animals that adapt well and whose survival genuinely depends on breeding programmes. Visitors, in turn, can influence the future: choosing zoos that publish their conservation work and treat their animals well sends a stronger message than simply staying away. The question, then, may not be whether zoos should exist at all, but which kinds of zoos deserve public support, and how we should judge them. That is a harder question than either side would like, but it is the one that actually matters.

"A little flour, enough water, and salt until it tastes right," said Babaanne, dropping an unmeasured handful onto the wooden board. Selin sighed and pressed the button on her phone to record yet another instruction that was, in her opinion, completely useless. She had come to her grandmother's flat in Kayseri for the whole of the spring holiday with one clear purpose: to learn how to make real Kayseri mantı. Everyone in the family agreed that Babaanne's were the best, so tiny that, according to family legend, forty of them could sit comfortably on a single spoon. Selin had decided that if she recorded every step and weighed every ingredient, she would be able to make them perfectly at home in Istanbul. That was the plan, at least. In practice, Babaanne ignored the kitchen scales Selin had brought, and she answered every question with the same phrase. "How much salt?" – "Enough." "How long should I knead it?" – "Until it is ready." "How will I know when it is ready?" – "You will know." On the third day, Selin tried to cut the dough into squares the way her grandmother did. Hers came out lopsided, thick at the corners and nearly transparent in the middle. Babaanne said nothing. She simply took Selin's hands, placed them over the dough, and pressed down lightly. "Feel that? It should push back a little, like a cheek when you pinch it." It was the first piece of advice that made any sense, and Selin wished someone had explained it that way from the start. By the end of the week she had stopped looking at her phone. She was watching her grandmother's fingers instead, and noticing the small things no recording could capture: how the rolling pin turned a quarter circle after each stroke, how Babaanne hummed whenever the dough was behaving. On the last evening, Selin made a full tray alone. They were not as small as her grandmother's, and a few had burst in the oven. Babaanne tasted one slowly, then nodded. Back in Istanbul, Selin still has the folder of recordings. She rarely opens it. Instead, she keeps a notebook where, beneath the title "Babaanne's Mantı", she has written only one line: "Until it pushes back."