It seems only yesterday we were picking our way through the Durham Dales on a wild forage, hedges were heavy with plump fruit, blackberries our favourite, the children’s faces red with the eating. Here in our village the trees are almost bare of leaves, fun for the children while walking to school, but my mind is trapped in the last days of September. The fields seem to expand when the trees become bare. I put the jigsaw of spring and summer memories together, yet the picture remains less complete than the previous year. We seem to work harder with less time to spare. I remember the female hen harrier in early summer, gliding over the Tees in search of young grouse. I can still see the reflections in the pool of White Well on the barren roof of Cronkley Fell in Upper Teesdale. I hear the Helm Wind on Cross Fell and remember how we disappeared in the mist. Even during those few fortunate days spent in the wild places, you know it will be sometime until you come this way again. We visited Kilnsey Show in Wharefdale, North Yorkshire, during the summer and the weathered, crimson faces of men watching sheep brings a lasting memory of another summer that passed me by.

Being another year older, I decided to embark upon another project to add to my growing list of unfinished work. Between, work, children/family, rugby, farmers’ markets, college and writing my book, I’ve tried to bridge an unfulfilled ambition to paint a large acrylic of Summerhill Force in Teesdale. I’ve made a few preliminary sketches in pencil and coloured pencil. I produced a few small watercolours last year, but I need to get the big canvas done to satisfy the thing that lives inside my head.

Next week I’m looking for a window to walk

I promise to post a real painting soon.

Often I’ve been aware of this feeling, none more so than my recent walk over Cross Fell, the highest point in the North Pennines at 2,930 feet, the highest and broadest piece of land in England.

The wilderness seems to filter through your body and you can’t rid the feeling nor wish. I spend days looking at my photographs, transfixed as though something is calling me back. The hold upon you is almost disturbing. Putting my feelings, (which I don’t understand) into words, is very difficult. Val can often be found trying to make sense of feelings and thoughts.

I’m still carrying the views and sounds in my mind, I’m certain if you put your ear to my head you’d hear the Helm Wind. Both inspiration and devotion I’ll never tire of the clouds and shadows racing across the burnt sienna and yellow ochare hills. There are moments when the mist descends its cloak, only for the wind to tear holes through the cloud revealing the nature reserve on one side and the equally stunning Eden Valley to the other.

While walking, we found the source of the great river Tees. A humble, gurgling spring emerging from rocks. Further down the valley the Tees becomes one of the most beautiful rivers in the British Isles with centuries of history along its banks.

Mines also splinter the landscape reminding us how difficult life must have been for people in the past. Loppyside Mine, Swathbeck Mine, Hunter’s Vein Mine are all names which sit between the contours of the map.

If any of you reading this feel a similar connection with a landscape I’d be interested in hearing from you.