2026

Taking my courage and camera in both hands, a walk through the streets of my local village, not the easiest of contexts for a shy street photographer. And processing the resultant images is definitely a challenge!

So far autumn is crispy dry here in the Apennine foothills with no rain forecast for the foreseeable future. But there are consolations, in the form of one of my iconic flowers, the ivy-leaved cyclamen, with its delicate blossoms bursting up through the forest floor.

As the days grow shorter and the winds grow colder, the skies are emptying as species after species, flock after flock migrate south. The last to leave are the house martins as they pass overhead, small groups at a time.

This pitilessly hot summer has been characterised by ferocious late-afternoon storms with gale-force winds, bringing down a myriad of colourless twigs and half-bleached leaves prematurely torn from their branches by the strong winds.

Just one day of intense rain has put an effective full stop to one of the hottest driest summers here in Italy’s central Apennines. A few late summer flowers, the last of the insects and we’re ready for autumn.

When the stress of summer gets in the way of motivation, sometimes all you have to do is sit and wait.

In the northern hemisphere, Summer 2026 will long be remembered in shades of black, accompanied by the acrid smell of wood smoke. Sometimes our planet as we know it seems such a fragile place.

Sometimes a dried-up shrivelled leaf is all it takes to dissipate a bad dose of summer season grumpiness and re-awake creativity.

Rain can be both a curse and a blessing… but at this time of year when wildfires threaten on every side, it is definitely the latter. It was also a fun opportunity to step out of my comfort zone and try a little “street” photography.

How lucky we “hunters of light” are to appreciate those little things. Just a few seconds, an angle changes by a couple of degrees, a leaf shifts in the breeze, shimmering, shifting… that’s all it takes to remain spellbound.

After the last few few days with the Canadair fire fighting planes passing continuously over my home, it seems right to share these images with you as a tribute to the pilots who are my undisputed heroes.

When the sun glares, blinds and blazes, bleaching the colours and sucking up every drop of moisture from the earth and the skin, it’s time to seek shelter in the shadows.

Two different approaches to the age-old question of survival. To shout or to whisper. I’ll let you be the judge.

It’s getting hot in my meadows, but I’m out there day after day to capture the ever fascinating flora and fauna. But then how to resist a refreshing afternoon nap as the scorching sun filters through the blinds.

After decades of natural light macro photography, I struggle on my first in-the-field venture with flash and diffuser. A lot of failures, but enough successes to persevere.

Stepping out of one comfort zone is hard, but stepping out of two both on the same morning is really challenging. But it somehow worked in capturing the less romantic side of my nearby village. And I can’t wait to have another go.

Mad March they say, and they’re right. Snow makes an expected comeback, but at our altitude it won’t last long. It’s time to make way for spring.

With the mountains still firmly in the grip of winter, every year I eagerly await the blossoming of the almond trees on the stony plateau near my home. A fragrant demonstration of resilience and vitality bringing with it a breath of Spring.

Today is the first of March. I’m not sorry to leave February behind for another year, but even in the midst of winter, nature manages to surprise and amaze, with the first flowers and a smattering of courageous arthropods to delight my spirit and my eyes.

There must have been literally hundreds of bees enjoying the nectar of the almond flowers, you could hear the buzzing from quite a few metres away…

Despite last night’s snow and an icy wind, Spring is in the air. A blackbird sings and the first almond blossom is backlit by the sun.

Just a short walk among the nearby foothills and for the first time the sun was just hot enough to make both me and the birds flit and chirp happily.

Come with me on a simple walk in the oak woods near my home on an undistinguished February day while I and the woodland wait for Spring to bring new sap and new energy.

When the sun’s rays break through the fog, then magic can happen and a simple patch of lichen can become a fairyland of light and enchanted shapes.

Very drab, very wet, very windy, very bleak hereabouts these days, but my annual February scramble to find those first courageous flowers is in full swing.

Wildlife photography is hard for me. It demands a fieldcraft and patience that often eludes me. But these feral horses are the perfect way to practice.

Sometimes it seems just too easy, a particular twirl of mist, the first rays of sun and the taste of the day’s first cup of coffee. Bittersweet like life itself.

A day in the life of whoever I am, to share, but also to remember, looking back from wherever I’ll be, whatever I’ll be doing a few years from now.

I still have a long wait until Spring, but here in the foothills of the central Italian Apennines, the very first flowers are appearing and the new season is slowly getting underway.

A walk in the crispy cold woods, braving the chill winds to explore old walls and fallen trees.

When temperatures plummet and the snow piles up, then I’m thankful for whatever I can glimpse (and photograph) through my window. And what’s not to like about a pigeon a day!

January can be a pretty bleak time of year and finding the enthusiasm to get out takes a lot of effort. But then the sun comes fleetingly out to play and it all seems worth it.

That’s just how some days are, when the rain steals away the colours. The reddish brown in the background is an oak tree which still has most of its autumn leaves.

There are long months of cold ahead, but nature never really stops. On the woodland floor, new leaves are already appearing, taking shape, growing. Their time will come.

The view from my Italian hilltop village. The storms come and go, rites of passage as the sun slowly begins its journey back to our (northern) hemisphere.

A new year, a new dawn, a new adventure. Happy New Year to planet Earth… just keep on rolling. Please.