September; In between summer and autumn, no August heat nor October chill, the leaves still green but with a golden hue nonetheless, the month is
Author Archives: Irene Amiet
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Where the Nymphs Play
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.
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Ode to May
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
The Boats at Morecambe Bay
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,
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Snow Gold
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
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January Bowland
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
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Snow in the Valley
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
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Winter’s Frosty Touch
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
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A Matter of Perception
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
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First Kiss of Summer
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