We’ve all been there, the almost shot. My advice: delete it. Too often, we go places hoping to capture a lasting image of a well-known

Bowland is a slumbering secret. Fed by its rivers, streams and drops of Lancashire rain, it glows like an emerald stone on a summer afternoon.

On an evening when the sun turns the land into a place where elves dance and midges go to a ball, when the sapphires bloom

On a spring morning Morecambe Bay glitters under a sun dripping her way through an knackered colander of clouds that fights to keep her in,

Winter and spring are locked in a gripping fight. Gusts of wind of 50mph on Pendle blow drifts of snow, only to let the sun

Bleakness can adorn in simplicity. If that is an oxymoron, I apologise. But oftentimes the smooth, unadorned fabrics carry an elegance in understatement, a similar

With a crystal clear frost topping the soil, winter arrived swaying his robes of white over Pendle and Bowland. The sheep on the hillside pastures

After a crisp evening, when Pendle glowed in sandstone red under a Michelangelo blue, and one’s breath stung skin and chest, Bonfire Night opened the gate to

My fascination with grass, its filigree beauty rooted in a common, if not ordinary, existence, has developed during hours waiting on the meadows on Pendle, for a