One morning a sound rolls through Bowland skies as if an orchestra of flute-playing sprites are sailing over our hills. Curlews have returned. Soon they’re
Midwinter Mornings
Setting out in darkness with shards of glassy snow crunching below my boots, shed from the starry heavens, daylight soon seeps in sweet rose across
The Last of the Autumn Sun
November carries heavy rain across the Northern Atlantic, which drench our moors for days on end. It’s a time to withdraw, shelter and to catch
Woodland Royalty
Of an early morning, amber eyes flit over dew-soaked meadows, wings buzzing quietly over thistle and grass, lifting, lowering, catching the breeze. Late of an
The Foxtrot
When there is nothing but bad news, doomsday approaching on poison-fume horses ridden by scythe swinging riders, I walk the woods. Patchy as they are
At Last Light
With their keen sense of smell, badgers are a tricky species to photograph and patience is the only fitting key. After locating a suitable habitat,
The Silence before Snow
At dawn, stillness wrapped in emeralds and anthracite, the airs a glassy curtain, heavy on the shoulder, cold on the skin. Across the field and
Writ on the Skies
All that can seem hostile and cold; biting winds, wet skies and twilight is but simmering coal from which the shadows spring, painting the season’s
Hunting Owls
Autumn arrives on a carriage drawn by horses of mist. Cotton-gauze swathed trees stand still in a moving sea of colour ever-changing with the layers of
A Reel in the Flickering Light
When the sun stays up late and the flowers reach out to touch the sky, when daddy-longlegs paint the air with notes sung by the