As the granddaughter of farmers, on both sides of the family, I’ve always felt connected to the rugged land surrounding the rolling curves of the Peak District. As a child, I’d catch crickets in glass jam jars with my grandma on the wildflower-filled meadows opposite her tiny picture-perfect cottage, or play with the smooth grain, piled high, waiting to be fed to shiny black and white Friesian cows.
Fast forward a few years, and a 19-year-long stint in London, and my connection to these natural landscapes faded. It wasn’t until recently that I found myself back there, living in a Peak District village for a few months one winter.
