What I saw sitting on my favourite rock.
There are important elements of writing that feel like skiving.
A spot of nature waiting.
Chilling out, until a peregrine kicks up a commotion.
In search of bearded tits.
The Moor is looking decidedly lacklustre this August.
On the advantages of being a crap gardener.
On the realisation that the natural world gets on perfectly well without us.
With half an hour to kill in Hebden Bridge, I head over to the river to see if there are any dippers around.