I don't think I'll ever lose that thrill of watching a cloud inversion, a phenomenon that occurs when temperatures at ground level are lower than those up in the air. It feels like watching a magician's trick as the mist coils and swirls through the valleys - revealing, then hiding, then revealing again the farms and trees and villages. This is one of my favourite views of the Hope Valley, with Mitchell Field Farm nestled in a hollow of trees. On this particular morning the farm stood bathed in early sunshine, but its view across the hills was utterly hidden as the mist danced around its footings.
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Sometimes you don't need grand vistas to feel inspired or lucky. Sometimes you just need old stone barns in fields full of buttercups, the morning mist draped softly across the hills, and the air full of skylarks.
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"...Then leaf subsides to leaf / So Eden sank to grief / So dawn goes down to day / Nothing gold can stay." - Robert FrostPerhaps the most precious quality of autumn is its ephemeral nature; of all the seasons, its glory seems to last the shortest time. This always makes me more determined to appreciate every minute of its bright colour, and I certainly drank in the blaze of gold and red and copper and bronze and green along this quiet lane beside Derwent Reservoir. A week or so later, and it was just a memory.
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Throughout the coldest days of winter, every morning when I started work and walked along the magnificent Long Gallery in Haddon Hall, an Elizabethan masterpiece of ornate plasterwork and carved wooden panelling, I spied the flutter of a little robin following me. He hopped from windowsill to windowsill, pecked along the floorboards, flew up to the cornices, and generally seemed to be enjoying what is reputed to be one of the most beautiful rooms in England. At first I worried that he'd got trapped inside, but then I spotted a tiny broken pane in one of the huge leaded windows with a few tell-tale feathers caught on the edges, and I realised that he most probably came in every night to sleep, preferring the high life to a hedge. One morning he posed perfectly for me next to the Christmas decorations, and I like to think it was his way of thanking me for not telling the wardens about his accommodation strategy!
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The sheep of the Peak District are a hardy lot, well suited to winter life on the hills when the snows blow in across the dry stone walls, but this little group looked seriously unimpressed as their fleeces gathered flakes.
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"So we’re out over the snow fields, before it’s all seen off with a salt-lick of Atlantic air." - Gillian Clarke This is such a tiny little view in the village of Great Hucklow, barely noticed by most, I'm sure, but it intrigues me and I've captured it in every season. That characterful gate, the protective tree, and in winter the view that leads to field upon field of shining snow, divided by dry stone walls beside which the sheep shelter.
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My footsteps creaking and squeaking, my cheeks reddening, my breath pluming out in front of me in the freezing air, I revelled in every step of this winter walk through Hathersage. I know this little cottage well, but half-glimpsed through the snow-heavy branches on the quiet lane, I felt as if I'd left the village behind and walked straight into a fairytale.
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My beautiful home village of Hathersage in the snow - the High Street quiet, the street lamps glowing and the shops shuttered, awaiting the thaw. Beyond, the fields and hills of the Hope Valley shine, ready for the children to wake up and grab their sledges.
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Can you hear the silence? There's barely a ripple from the little rowing boats tethered in the calm, still waters of Ladybower Reservoir, as the mists swarm above the arches of Ashopton viaduct and the green slopes of Crook Hill rise beyond into the morning sky. It's a view that never fails to make my shoulders drop.
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Oh, Hathersage. I don’t think I have ever loved my home village more than I did on this bright, beautiful morning. The curves and edges of the hills sparkled with bright snow, the mists curled lazily below, clearing and regrouping and clearing again to reveal tiny new scenes each time, and the church stood half-hidden amid trees that seemed crafted from diamonds. I could happily have stayed all day in that spot, freezing slowly, listening to the blackbirds and the bell ringing out every quarter hour through the valley.
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There are few things more life-affirming than walking through Spring woods on a sunny morning, the air full of birdsong and the scent of bluebells. These woods near Hathersage have always been a favourite of mine, but at this time of year they take on an even more special quality.
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There are trees, and then there are trees so special that they stand on their very own podium. This one is a treasure in every single different season, but adorned with the freshest, brightest new leaves, shining in the early morning sun, it's hard to imagine it ever looking more perfect.
