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I was driving home one autumn evening along the stunning lanes of the White Peak, when the clouds suddenly turned a very ominous grey, despite the low sun still lighting up the surrounding fields. I just love these conditions, that contrast of the dark sky and the bright land. Very luckily, I was driving along the prettiest little lane that runs through the rolling hills between Alsop en le Dale and Thorpe, and the view ahead of me was just too good not to stop and capture.
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Mam Tor, literally meaning Mother Hill, is an iconic Peak District hill, relatively accessible and easy to climb from the village of Castleton, but offering magnificent views from its summit, taking in the whole of the Hope Valley on one side and the whole of the Edale Valley on the other. More than just a pretty peak, it is a place of ancient civilisation, with evidence of occupation from around 1200 BC, the site of one of the earliest hill forts in Britain and also one of the largest, covering an area of around 16 acres.
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Every so often you come across a Peak District farm that looks so perfect in the landscape it's almost as if it's grown there, if you know what I mean? This scene outside the little Peak District village of Rainow in Cheshire can't have changed much for centuries. The farm has the date 1593 above the door, so it's certainly seen a few centuries come and go. I rather fell in love with it, plus it's on Hooleyhay Lane, which is surely the best ever name for a road?!
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I hope you can look at this photograph and almost hear the wind whistling through the tall grasses?! Higger Tor is a wild, windswept peak, and it looks at its most dramatic under scudding storm clouds in the late autumn light. I know Wuthering Heights wasn't quite set in this part of the country, but I feel sure Emily Bronte would have loved the inspiration here.
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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 outside the village of Youlgrave is a particular favourite of mine, standing alone in its field with only a tree for company; two old survivors.
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Deep in the woods, where only drops of winter sun fall through the branches onto the earth, lighting rocks that seem soft with velvet mosses, you walk into a world where fairytale and reality blur. In Celtic mythology such places were called Thin Places; where the veil between the physical world and the 'otherworld' of dreams was at its finest. The veils in Padley Gorge seem non-existent at times and I always stay out far too long amongst the ancient trees and shadows.
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Officially called Whim Wood, this small wood lies beneath Over Owler Tor. When my son was small we spent a lot of time exploring here, and on one memorable day we watched an enormous barn owl gliding like a silent ghost through the spaces, after which it became the Owl Wood to us. It's always a special place, but walking into the trees on this winter morning was like entering a fairytale world of soft light, deep colours and an indefinable magic. The sunshine flickered and flashed through the mist to fall in little pools on the bracken and briar, and the only sounds were the dry leaves rattling and the stream whispering.
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A wonderfully wild view of the gritstone slopes below Stanage Edge, the rusting heather and bracken leading on into the misty hills beyond, and that little farm hunkered down for shelter against the winds that whirl across the moors.
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Sometimes it doesn't matter where the road leads. All that matters is the daybreak rushing up the valley, meeting the old gate and then trickling along the verges to light up the hedgerows. All that matters is the song of the blackbirds waiting for the sun. All that matters is the spring in your step as you walk up the hill to meet the morning.
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A classic view in the Peak District village of Castleton, and I always think it looks at its most atmospheric in the winter dusk with the lamplight beckoning you out of the weather and towards the safety of the cottages. The roaring froth of Peakshole Water beside the house rises in Peak Cavern and rushes through the village to join the River Noe in Hope, and eventually on to the River Derwent.
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Sometimes, when the early winter sun shines through the mist and fills the air with gold, you just have to open the door and walk through into the light and possibilities beyond, don't you? Centuries old and studded with iron, this wonderful oak door is at Haddon Hall and leads into the wild acres of the Haddon Medieval Park, a true secret garden, untouched for 900 years and left to the perfect hand of nature.
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The rocky heights of Higger Tor provide a wonderful spot from which to watch the sun go down. The whole of the Hope Valley stretches before you and fills with light, and you can pick out the slopes of first Win Hill and then Lose Hill, right over to the bulk of Kinder Scout and Mam Tor herself at the head of the valley. There were no spectacular colours during this sunset, but actually I think the dark, brooding light on the receding hills made for a more atmospheric image, especially with that lone figure, just sitting, watching.
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There's such a sense of wonder that comes with watching a winter sunrise. Everything seems to happen much more quietly and gently than it does in summer. The light creeps into the sky with the softest pastel colours, the growing warmth very slowly burns off the mist that hangs in the valley, and the fields echo with nothing more than birdsong, sheep and your footsteps on the frosty grass. You always leave with your heart feeling a little bit lighter than when you arrived.
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This was such a beautiful Peak District morning, the sun just breaking through the mist in the valley and briefly turning the horizon a wonderfully warm orange. Something about this little scene really captivated me: the arching branches over the gate, the delicate filigree twigs of the tree, and that fabulous sky shining through it all.
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This is the historic Peak District market town of Bakewell, snoozing in the early morning, with the mists rising from the River Wye and slowly clearing from the jumble of rooflines. I love how the first rays of sunlight are just hitting the clock on the graceful spire of All Saints' Church.
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There's such a soft beauty about Winter light and the muted colours of a misty morning, as if Nature is just easing gently into the day, slowly turning up the brightness, rather than the sudden POW! of gaudy daybreak in Summer. I can never resist an open gate, and this one was definitely tempting me into the Secret Garden beyond.
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A beautiful moment on the edge of the Peak District village of Abney. The soft, low-lying mists and the movement of the birds contrasted with the solidity of the twisted old hawthorn tree, its branches curved by decades of moorland winds. I love the colour of nature and very rarely edit in black and white, but it seems to suit this very simple, structural image.
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This was definitely one of those mornings when I couldn't stop grinning like a loon because everywhere I looked there was so much beauty. Is it just me who does that?! But, oh, the soft winter sun falling through the mists and shining in pools of silver light on the water! The sparkle of ice on every tree and bright ripples reflecting on the old stones of the arched bridge. The Cromford Canal is a wonderful place to wander at any time of the year, but it has a perfect, quiet magic all of its own on frosty mornings.
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These beautiful woods are above the pretty Peak District village of Hathersage, approached by a narrow path up a hill. Walking through that little gate is like entering a different world. In Spring they're full of bluebells, in Summer the birds sing crazily in the beech trees, in Autumn they're a riot of colour ... and in Winter, well, they're magical. The snow falls so softly amid the ancient trees and the whole place is silent and sparkling.
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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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I love this view of Bakewell: the peaceful banks of the River Wye, overlooked by the jumble of rooflines of the old cottages, leading to the towering spire of All Saints Church beyond. The fresh fall of snow was just, well, the icing on the cake. Or pudding.
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Although not quite in the Peak District National Park, this fantastic avenue of trees on the edge of the Peak District at Upper Moor near Matlock is just too wonderful not to visit and photograph. The tall beech trees on the right arch beautifully over the little path, shaped by decades of wind blowing at them over the surrounding moors, and they contrast perfectly with the poker-straight pines on the left. I had an inkling that a little snow would show them at their best and this day didn't disappoint, the clinging snow picking out every contour and shape on the boughs.
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After a heavy snowstorm it always seems as if every living thing is slightly shocked, waiting, breath held, intrigued at what will happen next. The tree branches are completely still with sudden blooms of heavy crystals, the grasses stiff and frozen in the white, only the slightest flicker of water moving through the ice in the brook. I always feel like such a clumsy intruder when I walk into snow scenes. My footsteps break not only the clean, smooth surface of the new snow, but also the silence, their crunch and squeak deafening. I only went far enough to take the photograph, and then retreated, leaving the place to its perfect quiet.
