Wings flit over meadows, feathers blend with flowers under morning light. Calls piercing the woods, chicks ask their due of parents and life, to be

As the lowering sunshine slants across branches of mossy stem and porcelain leaf, tall grass, gold-spun, all wave in the breeze under wagtail’s whirring wings.

Painted, crafted and formed by the ever turning dials of our universe, our woods are celebrating youth. Darkness dissolves, and like a slow lapping of silver waves,

One morning a sound rolls through Bowland skies as if an orchestra of flute-playing sprites are sailing over our hills. Curlews have returned. Soon they’re

Setting out in darkness with shards of glassy snow crunching below my boots, shed from the starry heavens, daylight soon seeps in sweet rose across

November carries heavy rain across the Northern Atlantic, which drench our moors for days on end. It’s a time to withdraw, shelter and to catch

Of an early morning, amber eyes flit over dew-soaked meadows, wings buzzing quietly over thistle and grass, lifting, lowering, catching the breeze. Late of an

When there is nothing but bad news, doomsday approaching on poison-fume horses ridden by scythe swinging riders, I walk the woods. Patchy as they are

With their keen sense of smell, badgers are a tricky species to photograph and patience is the only fitting key. After locating a suitable habitat,

At dawn, stillness wrapped in emeralds and anthracite, the airs a glassy curtain, heavy on the shoulder, cold on the skin. Across the field and