I’ve always moved to the beat of my own drum. Definitely not a sheep, nor yet a shepherd – more of a loan mountain goat, with sturdy feet, adversarial horns, a personality unfazed by the rugged terrain of life and a yearning for freedom from the pack.

I consider myself beyond fortunate to live on the edge of the Lake District, my maternal ancestral home, its majestic fells and winding valleys imprinted on my very DNA. I can’t imagine ever being anywhere else.

I was wrapped in a blanket a few days ago, sipping hot chocolate from a steaming mug, rocking gently on my garden swing seat watching the sun set over rolling fields and distant fells, drinking in the silence, broken only by the eerie screech of a loan Buzzard, peace and gratitude coursing through my veins. Every breath, every moment, was soul food.

I haven’t been abroad on holiday since 1996. I have zero longing for exhausting hours spent travelling and beaches packed with scantily clad tourists sweating under a blazing sun in their 2 week escape from the daily grind. I have no grind from which I desire to escape. Give me a deserted riverbank, a hastily put up picnic eaten under a hazy blue sky, and a streak of blue as the Kingfisher silently darts on by and that’s all the R&R I need.

I remember going to London for my Exhibition in 2019 and booking 2 nights in a hotel near the Thames. But I only lasted the first night, feeling so suffocated by concrete and bustle and noise that I was on the first train north the next day, eagerly anticipating my first glimpse of the Cumbrian fells, on fire with autumnal glow, like an excited child. Home.

Mine may not be seen as an adventurous life, but it is filled with gentle wonder. Waking to the sound of calling Curlews and the Helm wind brooding atop the Pennines. Hours spent watching insects in their unseen macro life. Greeted with a “Howst er jern?’, the ancient dialect of my people. Walks anticipating the presence of a Heron on the river. Hours spent with fingers caked in mud, planting new life in the garden. Evenings spent with my nose in a book, cocooned in tranquil silence. Lulled to sleep by hooting owls, their flight paved by stars dazzling the dark skies. Unremarkable to the unobservant perhaps. Rich with awe and wonder to me.

Would I be the photographer I am today were I not surrounded by nature? By a peace which accompanies my every breath. Without the contemplative solitude which allows my imagination free rein? No. I am this mountainous yet fertile land to my bones and this land is me.