I wish I could live in a world where it was always May. In the countryside everything is fresh and new, with a just-laundered brightness and clarity. Delicate leaves, almost fluorescent in colour, unfurl like tiny flags on every branch, whilst tight buds of flowers ease into colour among the grasses. The birds sing from each treetop, field and hedgerow, surely for joy as much as for territory. The only sadness is that it can't all last forever.
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Glowing in the early morning Spring light, this is the little Peak District hamlet of Miller's Dale, nestled alongside the River Wye and surrounded on all sides by high limestone hills. The water rushed and bubbled through the valley and birds sang out from the trees whose shadows fell on the road, but otherwise all was perfectly peaceful as the day began in this little corner of England.
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After the long Winter months of brown and grey, Spring arrives like a shout of bright green from every tree, verge, hedgerow and forest floor. It was sheer, absolute bliss to stand in this woodland full of birds and allow my starved eyes to soak up every shade and tone and light of the green, from the fluorescent glow of the brand new beech leaves to the damp softness of the old moss on the rocks, and every possible hue in between.
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As tough as those early alarm calls are, I always feel very privileged to see the first light as the Spring sunshine softly reaches the sleeping Peak District valleys (and gates), calls the birds to song and wakes the sheep. This is the view over beautiful Chee Dale in Derbyshire in the quiet of the morning.
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“I come to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home.” ~ Henry David ThoreauThis is one of the most beautiful woodland walks I know. I love the arches of statuesque beeches, receding along the path like an arboreal Mexican wave, and that old stone wall that seems built to hold back the trees from advancing. I've photographed it in every season and it never fails to impress me, but I felt very privileged to stand here on this Spring morning to watch the young leaves glowing, the mist weaving around each bough, and the blackbirds heralding the new day.
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Heading home in the late evening, I had to stop and rub my eyes at this view; it felt as if I'd fallen into a dream. As the last of the day's golden light drifted through the trees, this beautiful little white horse lifted his head to watch me pass. I wouldn't have been wholly surprised if he had casually spread out a pair of wings and flown off across the hedgerows once I'd walked on.
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This pretty little gate above the Peak District village of Hathersage provides a wonderful viewpoint over the Hope Valley in Derbyshire, glowing golden on this warm summer evening in the light of the setting sun.
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I'm not ashamed to say that I did a little involuntary squeak when I wandered around a bend and saw this sight in front of me. A curving lane, that wonderful combination of mist and light that creates proper sunbeams, and a mighty fine gate reflected in perfect shadow. The magic lasted for a minute at most, but I felt incredibly privileged to have seen it and captured it to share.
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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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Deep in the woods as autumn closes in, amid the tangle of branches and bracken and briar, you walk into a world where fairytale and reality blur. Padley Gorge is a Thin Place. I always fall under the spell of the ancient trees and stay out far too long in the quiet and shadows.
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Autumn is a season that really makes you use all your senses. Walking along this beautiful path through Wyming Brook, your eyes catch first the flashes of gold amongst the green where the sun has lingered longest in the trees, then you hear and feel the crunch and swoosh as you tread through the leaves, before you inhale the scent of musty sweetness that hangs in the air.
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Wyming Brook is a magical place in which to wander, with waterfalls cascading through a wooded glade, crashing over rocks and sweeping under a succession of pretty wooden footbridges. Once a private medieval hunting forest for the region’s nobility, it is now a nature reserve, protected as a safe haven for a wide variety of wildlife. Keep your eyes and ears open here, and look out for crossbills, dippers, redstarts, pied flycatchers and wood warblers, as well as lutestring and northern spinach moths.
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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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This is one of my very favourite spots in the Peak District, a narrow lane that links the villages of Hathersage, Grindleford and Eyam. Flanked by old stone walls, and in parts way too narrow for two vehicles to pass, it's a quiet escape from the (relative) rush and bustle of life down in the valley. These tall, straight beech trees form an honour guard to welcome you as you enter, and I always breathe a little sigh of relief when I see them.
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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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I have a real affection for Fly Agaric fungi. They're little worlds of contrasts: bright and cheerful, yet at the same time deadly poisonous; rooted in the damp woods, yet at the same time otherworldly and magical. This beauty was perfect and shining, a shock of red in the dewy grass under the silver birch trees in Bolehill. As I laid down to take the shot and try to capture this transient life, a tiny fly flew up and into the sunshine ... or did I disturb a fairy?!
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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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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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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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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.