On a misty, still autumn morning, sitting by Burbage Brook as it tumbles through Padley Gorge, you can't help feeling that you've somehow fallen into a different world. Here there's no haste or pressure, no noise but the constant rush and bubble of water and the occasional fall of a leaf. I find that I always stay long, long after I've taken the shot, losing track of time, just watching and listening and breathing it all in, so grateful for such places and the chance to fall into them. It's always a wrench to climb back up to reality.
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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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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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As soon as Autumn rolls around I start searching out Fly Agaric toadstools, and I was very happy to find a little cluster under an old birch tree in Bolehill near Hathersage, surrounded by bright fallen leaves. They're such tiny, pretty things, reminiscent of magic and enchantment. And, with a sting in the tail like all the best fairytales, completely deadly.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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The Church of the Holy Cross in Ilam is possibly one of the prettiest churches in the Peak District. Certainly its setting is hard to beat, surrounded by the ancient trees of Ilam Park, with the distinctive heights of Thorpe Cloud rising behind to create a perfect backdrop. It's an interesting building too; it dates back to the 11th Century and contains a font carved with dragons as well as a shrine to St Bertram, himself a fascinating local figure - born in a nearby cave, rose to become Prince of Mercia, then lost his family to wolves and became a hermit in this area.
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So much can be contained in a tiny glimpse of a view, don't you think? I love this jumble of roof lines in the village of Ashford-in-the-Water, none quite the same height or shape or angle, as if they've risen up out of the fields themselves, rather than been subject to the hands and plans and designs of men. They looked perfect in the early light on this winter morning, smoking chimneys hinting at cosy warmth inside, and nothing but birds on the move.
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This wonderfully gnarled old tree stands alone in a quiet water meadow close to the River Dove. Its branches are like twisted limbs, painted with moss and lichen. I always stop to admire it, but on this autumn morning I was stopped in my tracks as I noticed the hundreds of gleaming silver cobwebs that it held so gently and carefully between its wizened fingers.
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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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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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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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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.
