If I could bottle up the scent of a mild May evening, shafts of sunlight bathing woodland carpets gold, I would. I hold onto spring long after it is gone, dreaming of the next bloom with which I can venture out with my camera and capture everything it is I love so much about this most magical time of year.

Sunlight drifts between the trees in golden shafts and orbs, dappling the undergrowth in a lazy, dreamlike haze melting at the edges, warm butter drenching the forest floor. Small clouds of flies spiral and reshape as they simmer out from the scrub like a slow-rising plume of steam.

The Eurasian wren may be one of Britain's smallest birds, but has a mighty personality and lives within a cut-throat society.

Every new venture has a story. Something catalytic which drives it forward into being, a small spark leading to another. Perhaps it isn't always about creating something novel, but returning to the bones of something you once knew and loved. When I'm asked what I want to do with my life, the answer is always to write, things that mean something and move people, move myself. To write about things that matter and through the page, share a portal to a natural world so many of us