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
Winter Mists
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
Magic Wings
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
Find Your Own
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
September in Bowland
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
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.
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,
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
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