IELTS Speaking: the test, the four marking criteria and how your band is worked out

Well, my hometown is quite small city, it's near to the coast. What I like most is, um, the people are very friendly and everybody know each other. Also there is a beach, so in summer we go there a lot with my family. It's not very exciting place but I think it's comfortable for living.

I'd say it's the sense of community. It's a fairly small coastal town, so you can't really walk down the high street without bumping into someone you know. Some people find that a bit suffocating, but I actually like it, because if anything goes wrong there's always someone around to help. And of course, the sea's only ten minutes away, which is a big plus.

Honestly, it's the pace of life. It's a small coastal town where nobody seems to be in a hurry, and after a week in a busy city I find that genuinely restorative. There's a tight-knit feel to the place too: the man who runs the bakery has known me since I was about six, so popping in for bread can easily turn into a twenty-minute chat.

I'm a student. I study civil engineering in the university, this is my third year. What I enjoy is, er, the practical part, when we go to the construction site and see how they are building the things. The theory sometimes is boring, but when I see it in the real life it make more sense to me.

I'm a student at the moment, in my third year of civil engineering. What I enjoy most is the site visits. You spend weeks looking at diagrams, and then suddenly you're standing under an actual bridge and it all clicks. To be honest, I find the theory quite dry sometimes, but those trips remind me why I picked the subject in the first place.

I'm studying civil engineering, I'm in my third year now. What keeps me going, really, is the moment theory turns into something physical. Had you asked me in my first year, I'd have said the maths was the whole point, but standing on a site and watching a structure take shape is what's made the subject come alive for me.

Yes, I like cooking, but only sometimes. In weekdays I don't have time because I finish work late, so usually I eat something simple, like pasta or eggs. But in the weekend I try to cook a proper meal, for example rice with chicken and vegetables. It is relaxing for me and also it is more healthy than buy food outside.

I do, yes, although it depends on how much time I've got. During the week I tend to throw something quick together after work, a stir-fry or whatever's in the fridge. At weekends, though, I like to take my time and try out a new recipe. I find chopping and stirring oddly calming, and it's cheaper than eating out.

I love it, actually, though I'd call myself an enthusiastic amateur rather than a good cook. On weeknights it's mostly about getting something nourishing on the table in twenty minutes, but at weekends I'll happily spend an afternoon on a slow-cooked stew. There's something satisfying about turning a few humble ingredients into a meal people genuinely enjoy.

In my free time, um, I like to play football with my friends, usually on Friday evening. And also I watch series on my phone, maybe one or two episode in the night. Sometimes I go to the gym, but not regular, because, er, I am a bit lazy, I think.

Mostly sport, to be honest. I play five-a-side football with some friends from work every Friday, and that's pretty much the highlight of my week. Other than that, I'm quite a homebody, so I'll usually unwind with a series or a good podcast. I keep meaning to get back into running, but it hasn't happened yet.

Football, mainly. I play five-a-side every Friday night, and it's the one fixed point in my week that I'll rearrange everything else around. Beyond that I'm fairly low-key: a long walk, a podcast, maybe a bit of cooking. I've come to think the best free time is the kind that isn't scheduled down to the minute.

OK, so I want to talk about my maths teacher in secondary school. She was teaching us for three years, from when I was about thirteen until sixteen.

Er, so, what she was like. She was very strict, I think everybody was little bit afraid from her in the beginning. She always give a lot of homework and if you didn't do it, she will ask you to stay after the class. But, um, after some time we understood that she is strict because she really care about us. She explained everything very clear, step by step, and she never make you feel stupid if you ask a question.

Why she was so important for me... Actually before her class I was really bad in maths, I hated it. But she gave me extra exercises and she, how to say, she believed in me. In the end I got a good mark in my exam and, er, now I study accounting, which is a lot of numbers, so I think without her I will not choose this subject.

So yes, she was very important teacher for me and I still remember her, even now.

I'd like to talk about my maths teacher from secondary school, who taught me from the age of thirteen until I took my exams at sixteen.

At first she had a reputation for being incredibly strict. She set loads of homework, and if you turned up without it, you'd find yourself staying behind after the lesson. So, to be honest, most of us were a bit wary of her. But it didn't take long to realise that the strictness came from the fact that she genuinely cared. She'd break every problem down into small steps, and she never made anyone feel silly for asking a question, even if it was the third time.

The reason she influenced me so much is that, before her, I was convinced I was hopeless at maths. I'd more or less given up. She noticed that and started giving me extra problems to do, and she'd go through them with me at lunchtime. Gradually I started to get it, and I ended up with one of the best marks in my year, which I'd never have expected.

That experience is a big part of why I chose to study accounting. More than that, though, it taught me that being bad at something is often just a stage, not a permanent fact about you. So I think about her quite often, actually.

The teacher who's had the most lasting effect on me is my maths teacher from secondary school. She taught me for three years, right up to my exams at sixteen.

She had something of a fearsome reputation. Homework was non-negotiable, and turning up empty-handed meant a polite but firm invitation to stay behind. So for the first term most of us kept our heads down. What we came to realise, though, was that the strictness was really a form of respect: she simply refused to believe any of us were incapable. Her explanations were meticulous, every problem broken into manageable steps, and she had an unusual patience with questions, however basic.

Her influence on me was quite personal. I'd arrived convinced I just didn't have a mathematical brain, and I'd stopped trying. She picked up on that almost immediately and, without making a fuss, began slipping me extra problems and going through them with me over lunch. Little by little, the subject stopped being a source of dread, and by the end I'd done far better than anyone, least of all me, had predicted.

I'm now studying accounting, which I wouldn't have dreamt of before her classes. But the more lasting lesson was about mindset: that struggling with something tells you where you are, not where you'll stay. I've leant on that idea a great deal since.

I want to talk about a small fishing village which I visited last summer with my cousins. It is on the coast, about three hours by car from my city.

We stayed there for four days in a small guesthouse. The owner was very kind, she cooked breakfast for us every morning, very fresh fish and bread. In the day we walked around the village, we went to the harbour and watched the fishermen when they come back with the boats. One day we took a boat trip to see the cliffs, it was really beautiful but, er, little bit scary because the sea was rough.

Why it was interesting for me... I think because it was very different from my city. In my city everything is fast and noisy, but there, people live in a more slow way. There is no big shops, only small ones, and everybody is knowing each other. Also I learned some things about how they catch the fish, one fisherman explained us, it was interesting.

So, it was a nice experience and I want to go back there again maybe next year.

I'm going to talk about a little fishing village I went to last summer with a couple of my cousins. It's on the coast, roughly three hours' drive from where I live.

We stayed in a family-run guesthouse for four nights, and the owner made us breakfast every morning with fish that had been caught that same day, which was a real treat. Most of the time we just wandered around. We'd go down to the harbour early to watch the boats come in, and one afternoon we took a trip out to see the cliffs. That was stunning, although the sea was quite choppy, so I spent half of it holding on tight.

What made it so interesting was the contrast with home. My city is busy and noisy and everyone's always rushing, whereas in the village life seemed to move at a completely different pace. There weren't any chain stores at all, just a handful of little shops, and people stopped to chat everywhere. One of the fishermen spent ages explaining how they read the weather before deciding whether to go out, which I'd never really thought about before.

So it wasn't a dramatic trip, but it's stayed with me, and I'd love to go back.

The place I'd like to describe is a small fishing village I visited last summer with two of my cousins. It sits on a fairly remote stretch of coast, about three hours' drive from my city.

We spent four nights in a guesthouse run by a retired couple, and breakfast was the highlight of every day: bread still warm from the oven and fish that had been landed a few hours earlier. We didn't have much of a plan. We'd drift down to the harbour at dawn to watch the boats unload, and one afternoon we hired a boat to see the sea cliffs, which were breathtaking, if slightly unnerving in a heavy swell.

What fascinated me was how differently time seemed to work there. Back home everything is scheduled and hurried, whereas the village ran on the tide and the weather. There wasn't a single chain store, and a trip to buy milk could easily involve three conversations. One of the older fishermen talked me through how he judges whether it's safe to go out, reading the cloud cover and the colour of the water, and I was struck by how much knowledge was carried around in people's heads rather than written down.

It was hardly an adventurous holiday, but it shifted my sense of what a good pace of life might look like.

I'd like to talk about swimming. It's a bit embarrassing because I learned it quite late, when I was twenty-two.

When I was child I never had a chance to learn, because there was no swimming pool near our house, and my parents also didn't swim. So when I started university, I saw there is a pool in the sports centre and they have lessons for adults, so I decided to join.

The difficult part was, um, not the movement of arms and legs, it was the fear. Every time I put my face in the water I was panicking and I stand up immediately. The instructor was very patient. He told me to just work on my breathing first, er, like blowing bubbles, for many weeks. It sounds very easy but for me it was really hard. I think I went for maybe three months before I could swim one length of the pool without stopping.

Now I feel really proud of myself. I go swimming two times in a week and it's good for my health and also for my stress. If I didn't learn it, I think I will always feel a bit worried near water, so I'm very happy I did it.

I'm going to talk about swimming, which I only learned in my early twenties, so it's slightly embarrassing to admit.

I never had the chance as a child, because there wasn't a pool anywhere near where we lived, and neither of my parents could swim. Then, when I got to university, I found out the sports centre ran beginners' classes for adults, so I signed up, mostly because a friend dared me to.

The hardest part wasn't the technique at all, it was the fear. Every time I put my face in the water, I'd panic and stand straight up. The instructor was incredibly patient. For the first few weeks he had me doing nothing but breathing exercises, blowing bubbles in the shallow end, which felt ridiculous. It took me about three months before I managed a full length without grabbing the side.

These days I go twice a week, and it's become one of the main ways I deal with stress. Looking back, I'm really glad I stuck with it, because if I hadn't, I think I'd still be nervous anywhere near water. It also made me realise it's never too late to pick something up.

The skill I'd like to talk about is swimming, which, slightly embarrassingly, I didn't learn until I was twenty-two.

Growing up, I never had a pool within reach, and since neither of my parents swam, it was never really on the agenda. It was only when I started university and noticed the sports centre offered adult beginners' sessions that I thought I'd finally tackle it, partly out of curiosity and partly because a friend wouldn't stop teasing me.

What I hadn't anticipated was that the technique would be the easy bit. The real obstacle was fear. The moment my face went under, some instinct took over and I'd shoot upright, spluttering. The instructor, to his credit, never rushed me. He had me spend weeks on nothing but controlled breathing in the shallow end, which felt faintly absurd at the time but turned out to be exactly what I needed. It was a good three months before I swam an unbroken length.

Now I swim twice a week, and it's become my main way of switching off. Had I given up in those first few weeks, I suspect I'd still be uneasy around water. More than anything, it showed me that the barrier to learning something new is often emotional rather than physical.

I want to talk about an app which I use for public transport in my city. It shows all the buses and trains and the times when they arrive.

I found out about it from my colleague, maybe two years ago. Before that I always waited at the bus stop and I didn't know when the bus is coming, sometimes twenty minutes, so it was very annoying. My colleague showed me on his phone and I downloaded it the same day.

I use it every day, er, mostly for going to work and coming back. You put where you are and where you want to go and it gives you the best way, and also it tells you if there is a problem, like if a train is cancelled or late. There is also a function where you can buy the ticket inside the app, so you don't need cash.

Why it is useful... I think the main reason is it saves my time. Now I leave my house exactly when I need, not too early. Also it makes me less stressed, because I know what will happen. Some people say we use the phone too much, and it's true, but this kind of app is really helpful for the daily life.

I'd like to talk about a journey-planning app I use to get around my city. It covers all the buses and trains and shows you when they're actually due, not just the timetable.

A colleague put me onto it a couple of years ago. Before that I used to just turn up at the bus stop and hope for the best, which sometimes meant standing around for twenty minutes in the rain. He saw me getting frustrated one day, showed me the app on his phone, and I downloaded it there and then.

I use it pretty much every day, mainly for commuting. You type in where you're starting from and where you're heading, and it suggests a few routes, along with how long each one will take. It also flags up delays and cancellations, which is a lifesaver in winter. And you can buy tickets in the app, so I hardly ever need cash.

The main reason it's so useful is that it gives me back a bit of control over my time. I leave the house when I need to rather than ages early, just in case. It might sound minor, but it takes a surprising amount of stress out of the day.

I'd like to talk about the journey-planning app I rely on for getting around my city. It draws on live data for every bus and train, so rather than telling you when a service is supposed to arrive, it tells you when it actually will.

A colleague introduced me to it a couple of years ago, after watching me fume at a bus stop for the third morning in a row. Up to then my approach had essentially been to turn up and hope, which in reality meant a lot of wasted time and some very cold mornings.

I use it daily, mostly for my commute. You enter your starting point and destination, and it offers a handful of routes, each with a realistic journey time and the number of changes involved. Crucially, it alerts you to disruption as it happens, so if a line is suspended, you know before you're stuck on the platform. You can also buy and store tickets in it, which has more or less made cash redundant for me.

What makes it genuinely valuable, I think, is that it turns an unpredictable part of the day into something I can plan around. I no longer build in a generous margin just in case, and that small sense of control does a lot to lower my stress levels.

OK, the place I want to describe is a park near my flat. It's about ten minutes walking from my home, next to the river.

I go there quite often, maybe three or four times a week, especially in the spring and summer. In the winter not so much because it's cold and, um, getting dark very early.

What I do there... usually I go for a walk or sometimes I run, there is a path around the lake, it's around two kilometres. On the weekend I go with my friends and we bring some food and sit on the grass, like a picnic. There are also many people with dogs and children playing, so it is quite lively, but also it is peaceful, if you know what I mean.

Why I like it, I think because in the city there is not so much green places and it's good to have somewhere to relax. When I am stressed from my work, I go there and after half an hour I feel more calm. Also the air is more fresh than in the streets. And, er, it's free, so you don't need to spend money, which is also good.

So yes, I really like this park and I hope they will keep it like this.

I'm going to describe a park that's only a ten-minute walk from my flat. It runs alongside the river, and there's a small lake in the middle.

I go there three or four times a week when the weather's decent, though in winter it drops to maybe once a week, because it gets dark so early.

Most of the time I'm either walking or running. There's a path that loops round the lake, about two kilometres, so it's perfect for a quick run before work. At weekends it's more sociable: a few friends and I will grab some food and have a picnic on the grass. It's always full of dog walkers and families, so there's a nice buzz, but somehow it still feels calm, especially by the water.

The main reason I like it is that it's a real escape. Where I live is pretty built-up, so green space is quite precious. If I've had a stressful day, half an hour there is usually enough to clear my head. The air feels cleaner, too, and it costs nothing, which matters when everything else in the city seems so expensive.

I just hope it stays as it is and doesn't get developed.

The green space I'd like to describe is a riverside park about ten minutes' walk from my flat, built around a small lake.

How often I go depends very much on the season. From spring through to early autumn I'm there three or four times a week, but in the depths of winter, when it's dark by half four, that drops to the odd weekend visit.

On weekday mornings it's my running route: a two-kilometre loop round the lake that's just long enough to wake me up without wrecking my legs for the day. Weekends are a different story. A few friends and I will often turn up with whatever we've managed to throw into a bag and make an afternoon of it on the grass. There's a constant stream of dog walkers and young families, so it's never deserted, and yet the moment you get near the water the noise seems to fall away.

I value it mainly because my neighbourhood is densely built-up, and having somewhere open and green within walking distance feels like a genuine luxury. After a draining day, half an hour there resets me in a way that scrolling on my phone never does. And the fact that it's free and open to everyone is, I think, exactly what makes a city liveable.

I'd be genuinely sorry if it were ever built on.

Hmm, I think it's both better and worse. Better because now we can talk with people in other countries very easy, for example I make video call with my uncle who lives abroad every week, and it's free. Before, people had to write letters or pay a lot for phone calls.

But, er, also it's worse in some way, because people are always looking at their phone, even when they are sitting together with their family. So the communication face to face is becoming less. Also young people write very short messages with emojis and they don't, how to say, they don't express their feelings properly. So I think technology is good but we should use it in a balanced way.

I'd say it's made communication easier, but not necessarily better. On the plus side, distance hardly matters any more. I video call relatives abroad every week at no cost, which would've been unthinkable for my parents' generation.

The downside is that being constantly connected seems to have made us a bit less present. You often see families at a restaurant all scrolling through their phones instead of talking to each other. And because so much of our contact is through quick messages, I think we've lost some of the depth you get from a proper conversation, where you can hear someone's tone or see their reaction.

So overall it's a mixed picture. The tools themselves are great, but it's up to us how we use them.

I think it's made communication far more frequent but not always more meaningful. The gains are undeniable: I can see and speak to relatives on another continent every week for nothing, which was simply out of reach a generation ago.

What concerns me is the trade-off in quality. When contact is constant and effortless, it tends to become shallow, a stream of quick reactions rather than real exchanges. Text strips away tone of voice and facial expression, so misunderstandings are more common and harder to repair. And there's the odd paradox of people being physically together but mentally elsewhere, each absorbed in a screen.

That said, I'd be wary of blaming the technology itself. It amplifies whatever habits we already have, so the real question is whether we use it to supplement face-to-face contact or to replace it.

Yes, I think it's important, because many young people finish the school and they don't know how to do basic things, like how to pay the bills or cook a simple meal. For example, my friend moved to another city for university and he was spending all his money in the first month, because nobody teach him how to make a budget.

But I don't think schools should stop the academic subjects, because they are also necessary for university and for the jobs. Maybe they can add one or two lessons in a week for life skills. If schools will do this, students will be more ready for the real life.

I think there's a strong case for it, although I wouldn't go as far as replacing academic subjects. A lot of people leave school without knowing how to budget, read a payslip or cook a basic meal, and they end up learning the hard way. A friend of mine ran out of money within a month of starting university simply because nobody had ever shown him how to plan his spending.

At the same time, academic subjects give you the foundations for further study and a lot of careers, so I don't think you can drop them. What I'd suggest is a compromise: a couple of hours a week of life skills, perhaps built into maths or science lessons. If that were done well, I think students would leave school far better prepared.

I'd argue for a rebalancing rather than a swap. It's striking how many people leave school able to solve equations but unable to make sense of a tenancy agreement or plan a monthly budget, and they usually learn those things through costly mistakes. A friend of mine burned through his entire student loan within weeks of starting university, not out of carelessness but because nobody had ever walked him through budgeting.

Having said that, academic subjects aren't a luxury. They're what keeps doors open to higher education and to a huge range of careers. The more sensible approach, in my view, would be to weave practical skills into existing subjects: interest rates in maths, nutrition in science, and so on. That way, students gain the skills without losing the depth, and arguably the academic content becomes more relevant as a result.

I think the main reason is the jobs. In the big cities there are more companies and the salary is higher, so young people think they will have a better future there. Also there is more entertainment, like cinemas, restaurants, concerts, and the small towns are a bit boring for them.

But it can make problems. For the cities, they become very crowded and the price of the houses goes up, so it is difficult to find a flat. And for the small towns, er, only old people are staying there, so the shops and schools are closing. I think it would be better if there are more jobs in the small towns, so people don't need to leave.

Mainly it's about opportunity. Big cities are where most of the well-paid jobs are, especially in fields like finance or technology, so if you're ambitious, there's a strong pull. There's also the lifestyle: more going on, more people your own age, and a sense that life's happening there rather than somewhere else.

The problems show up on both sides, though. Cities get overcrowded, and housing becomes so expensive that young people end up spending half their income on rent, often sharing with strangers. Meanwhile, smaller towns lose their younger residents, which means local businesses struggle and services like schools and clinics gradually close. It becomes a kind of vicious circle, because the fewer opportunities there are, the more people leave.

Opportunity is the obvious draw. Cities concentrate employers, particularly in sectors like finance, tech and the creative industries, so for an ambitious graduate, staying put can feel like capping your own prospects. There's a social dimension as well: a critical mass of people at the same stage of life, and a sense of being where things are happening.

The costs, though, are felt at both ends. Cities come under intense pressure on housing and transport, and rents climb to the point where young professionals spend a disproportionate share of their income just to keep a roof over their heads. Smaller towns, meanwhile, face a gradual hollowing-out: as younger residents leave, local businesses lose customers, services contract, and the place becomes even less attractive to the next generation. It's a self-reinforcing cycle that's very hard to break once it's under way.