Bring the beauty of the Peak District countryside into your home with photographic prints and high quality canvases. Featuring my own photographs, they celebrate the quiet lanes, magical woodlands and windswept moors of this wonderful place.
My photographic prints are available to order in a range of sizes from 6×6″ to 24×24″. They are reproduced on archival quality professional photographic paper, with a semi-matt finish. Prints are unmounted for you to mount and frame yourself to suit your decor.
My canvases are individually printed onto 100% cotton canvas of 340GSM thickness, using a 12 colour process for rich, vibrant colours. They’re hand-stretched onto European pine wood frames, and are ready to hang on your wall straightaway. They’re available in sizes from 8×8″ to 36×36″ in a choice of two depths.
I’m so sorry, but I am only able to offer UK shipping. Please note that each canvas is hand-made to order so please allow 10-14 days for delivery. Thank you!
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The Peak District National Park is a biiiig place. It takes in parts of five different counties: Derbyshire, Yorkshire, Staffordshire, Cheshire and even Greater Manchester. This is the lovely village of Rainow in Cheshire, looking very pretty on an autumn afternoon. I love the way the little church of the Holy Trinity glows amongst the trees, and you can spot a happy flock of sheep surrounding the farm on the hillside above. You might also be able to pick out a rather fine gate in the foreground, which just completed the scene for me.
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These graceful birch trees grow amid the bracken in Bolehill, just outside the Peak District village of Hathersage. The woodland here is always beautiful to explore, but on misty autumn mornings there's such a quiet, still magic that it feels a little bewitched. On days like this I find that I creep about, hardly daring to move or make a sound in case I break the spell, and I can't stop myself from glancing back over my shoulder every few paces for unseen eyes among the trees.
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Sometimes you head out with intentions of capturing sweeping views and morning mists and grand autumnal scenes ... and then you spy little moments of such absolute simple beauty that you get completely entranced and waylaid, and instead spend ages with the tiniest toadstools gleaming in the dew. But how could I resist?!
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The Peak District has some truly characterful barns, many of them crumbling beautifully in their fields as the seasons pass, perhaps not as weather-tight as once they were but still providing perfect shelter for cattle and wildlife. This one is a particular favourite of mine, two old survivors, barn and tree, weathering all storms together.
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I very rarely photograph wildlife - I leave that to people with more patience and longer lenses - but when this Little Owl sat staring at me from her tree hollow, the morning sun highlighting her beautiful plumage and wise eyes, well, it would have been rude not to take a picture, wouldn't it?!
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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.
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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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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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Dandelions must be the most underrated of flowers, maligned as a 'weed' and cut or poisoned away from verges and fields and gardens without a thought. Yet at each stage of their life cycle they are perfect, symmetrical wonders, with the most beautiful structure and form. They also provide vital early food for butterflies and bees, and bring us the first much-needed shots of bright colour after the dark of winter.These dandelion seed heads were lit by the setting sun as I passed them, each one a tiny ball of light, the whole field transformed into a mass of caught gold. Nature throws us so many jewels of immense beauty if we only stop to see, notice and appreciate them.
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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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Every grand old tree can tell so many tales of centuries - the walls built, the storms weathered, the people who have sought shade and solace beneath their boughs - but this beauty is truly a magical storyteller.Spring is in full force, the daffodils bloom by the wall and each twig is tipped with a bud about to burst into green, but for now she is still flaunting the filigree beauty of her bare branches, each knot and bump and whorl in her bark, and her stories are at their loudest, for anyone who stands still and long enough to listen.
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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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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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"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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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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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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"...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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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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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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I don't think I have ever loved my home village of Hathersage more than on this midwinter morning. The curves and edges of the hills sparkled with bright snow, the mists curled lazily below, clearing and regrouping to reveal tiny new scenes each time, and the church stood half-hidden in trees that seemed crafted from diamonds. The gate which once announced the entrance to the village has now given up its duties, but looked perfectly in place resting on part of an old stone wall and shouting its name to the sky. I could happily have stayed all day in this spot, listening to the bells ringing out every quarter hour through the Hope Valley.
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Don't adjust your set, it's the gate that's (very) wonky! Of all the wonky gates in all the world, this one is my favourite. It can be a little hard to push open, and blimey you've got to run through it quickly unless you want to lose half a leg when it crashes shut behind you, but I love that you reach it through the towering trees on this path beneath Stanage Edge, and that it leads out into the bright autumn fields above the Hope Valley.
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There's no denying that I love the long, warm days of summer, and the bright blaze of autumn in its full glory, but these teetering days in between have a beauty and perfection all of their own, the slow slide from one season to the next. The light is soft, the air weighted with mists, and the greens in the trees are scattered with flecks of gold where the sun has lingered longest. On the peaceful River Lathkill, all was calm and quiet, save for the low bubble of the water and the occasional splash of the swan's wings.
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'The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.' - Robert FrostIn these most perfect, dark, deep woods, the snow fell so silently on the branches and the soft earth beneath my feet. The swirl of fog and flakes lit the space ahead, making the distance glow with a half-suggested light that was impossible to resist, drawing me further and further in.
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Every time I walk in Padley Gorge, even though I tell myself sternly, "Stay away from the bridge, walk past the bridge, do NOT photograph the bridge" - I just can't resist it. And on this misty, shining morning, with the early light glowing on the midsummer green, it looked pretty darned perfect.
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On Sycamore Hill grows this absolute giant of a tree, perfectly formed, the sort of tree a child would draw if asked to draw a tree. Of course it helps that he stands on his own podium and is approached via a rustic gate in a meadow of wildflowers. He deserves nothing less.
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In the quiet fields on the edge of the pretty village of Hathersage, I chanced upon this beautiful young roe deer. He stood completely still for a few moments, his eyes shining and his ears quivering, watching me, listening, waiting for the click and the whispered 'Thank You'.
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Sometimes everything you need is right there in front of you. Nothing more complicated than an old stone barn in a summer field, surrounded by trees as the evening light falls golden on the grasses. I stayed here until the sunlight faded, the air chilled and the owls began hooting.
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In Autumn the ancient woodland of Padley Gorge is filled with soft, muted colours in the trees and underfoot. There's always such a quiet hush here when the air is misty and still; even the birds seem to hold their breath. The only sound is the busy rush and froth of Burbage Brook as it winds around the moss-covered rocks and under the pretty bridges.
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This is Moat Low, a Bronze Age bowl barrow and Scheduled Monument near Tissington in the Peak District, visible for miles around and easily recognisable because of its distinctive trees. Excavations here in 1845 revealed a grave with two skeletons and further cremation remains, as well as a bronze axe. It's fascinating to think of the history of these places and our ancestors who perhaps walked the same paths we still walk now. I'm pretty sure I'd be happy with this as my final resting place.
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Is there a better way to spend a sunny day than wandering along an English country lane, grass growing in the middle, sheep baaa-ing over the stone walls on all sides, and endless blue skies above?! This is one of my very favourite lanes in the Peak District, although admittedly I do have many. It offers the most beautiful White Peak views, it's a little haven away from the hustle and bustle - and it ends at a pub.
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I hope you can FEEL the sunshine oozing out from this beautiful Peak District lane in Hulme End?! I'm always slightly in mourning when May has gone - as usual it seems to zoom past way too quickly in a sweet blur of hawthorn blossom and cow parsley. Before you know it, the baby birds have fledged, the lambs are mini sheep, and June is swaying in with her arms full of foxgloves and poppies.
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Darn it, you know that feeling when you've got your best outfit on, you've done your hair beautifully, and then you only go and spill your dinner all over yourself with the first mouthful?!
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I was very, very happy to spend a ridiculously long time with these stitchwort flowers, covered in dew and sparkling in the early sun. There’s so much beauty in tiny scenes. When you move your gaze from the big views, you’re richer for noticing the thousands of delicate details.
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I was peeking through a hedge at this little lamb playing in her dandelion field, when she suddenly spotted me and came rushing over to discover what on earth I was. Except she came so close that I couldn't fit her in the frame and I had to move back a little to take the shot, and then she was Very Proud Indeed that she'd scared off the hedge-based intruder, and went racing off to tell mum how brave she'd been.
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I feel lucky beyond measure to live in this beautiful place. Even though I know it far better than the back of my hand, and I have seen it in all weathers and seasons and moods, it still has the ability to take my breath away on a regular basis. Rosy dawns on quiet lanes, the dew on the fields sparkling in the soft light? All the money in the world can't buy mornings like this, nor the gift of seeing them and revelling in them.
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This peaceful duckpond is in the heart of the Peak District village of Tissington. With a collection of grand stone houses and pretty cottages clustered around a magnificent Jacobean manor, Tissington is one of the most picturesque villages in the area. Explore its narrow lanes to find a 12th Century church, six village wells and this duckpond, home to lively populations of ducks, coots, moorhens and goldfish - who don't always get along as swimmingly as you might think!
