Author Archives: Irene Amiet

A misty morning and a pheasant appears from the gloom, a croaking feathered prancer startling me and him. The mist fades and light reveals the

Last night’s snow rests frozen over the Ribble Valley under a lilac dawn. As diamonds and sapphire enhance each other’s sparkle and depth, a blue

Frost’s crystal chimes on grass and twig, glazed Hawthorn berries in icy wreath on gnarled trees, the sun blowing the mists down the fell, winter’s

Every autumn, at Martin mere near Burscough in Lancashire, the skies fill with thousands of wings of birds who choose the protected wetlands at the

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