Author Archives: Irene Amiet

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

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