There is something wonderfully unhurried about midsummer in the valley.
The dawn arrives long before I’m ready for it, yet it’s impossible not to be drawn outside. Pepper and I have our familiar rhythm: an early wander around the reservoir while the water is still mirror calm, or a hike up to Musbury Heights, or the Tor. A little yoga by the brook, then wander home for breakfast and a steaming cup of matcha and thoughts of what might find its way onto the table that evening.
Now he kitchen renovation is completed, cooking has again become just as much a pleasure as walking. Summer vegetables are at their best – the nearby farm shop is a delight – herbs spill from the garden, and meals seem happier when they’re shared with the doors open and the evening sun lingering overhead.
The hedgerows are beginning to offer their own bounty too. The first blackberries have started to ripen, still outnumbered by their hard green neighbours, but enough to encourage the occasional pause for a sweet, sun-warmed handful. It’s one of those tiny rituals that reminds me how generous nature can be if you simply take the time to notice.
Our walks have taken us up onto Musbury Heights several times this week. The little owls have been showing well, perching on their favourite stone walls before melting back into the old trees. They’re birds that somehow seem perfectly suited to this landscape, quietly watching as walkers pass beneath them.
One visitor, however, came as a complete surprise.
For three consecutive mornings I have heard the unmistakable call of a Grey Plover. They’re birds I normally associate with windswept estuaries and tidal mudflats, not the hills of Rossendale. To encounter one here is unusual enough; to hear the same haunting call over several days felt like a small midsummer gift. Perhaps it had been nudged inland by the weather, following one of the invisible migration routes that carry birds across the Pennines towards the rich feeding grounds of our west coast estuaries. We often think of migration as something that belongs to the coastline, yet the skies above our valley are highways too, if only we remember to look up.
The roe deer have begun their annual rut. The bucks seem restless now, patrolling woodland edges and chasing rivals with a determination that wasn’t there only a fortnight ago. Early mornings have become full of unexpected encounters, as deer appear from the bracken before slipping silently back into cover.
These are the weeks I treasure most.
The valley is lush once more after the recent rain, dragonflies patrol the reservoir, swallows skim low across the water, and every walk seems to offer something different. There is no urgency to any of it. Just gentle mornings, good food, ripe berries, faithful company and the quiet privilege of watching another Rossendale summer unfold one day at a time.
Sometimes that is more than enough.
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