Author Archives: Irene Amiet

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

The aroma of fresh, wet grass, the tickle of soft pollen, the chirps of swallows and finches, the humm of tiny flies, sprinkled as gold

This merry month has shot through the soil in the Ribble Valley. Within days the last sycamore and oak has budded or sprung into leaf, towering

Some days the Yorkshire Dales beckon like strongest bait with their silver cliffs and limestone faces. Pen-y-Ghent dominates the silhouette, slightly ominous, like a dormant