When the mists roll in to take us on a journey through a land newly imagined, we’re like a child seeking to escape a dream,

When golden strands are threaded through every hue of green or red and the drystone walls appear like scraped old leather at sunset, autumn has

The fertile fields of May, that sunlight bouncing on bright green grass and trees adorned with their brand-new frocks. The Hawthornes are still in their

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.