It’s early morning, the mist swirls around the lake in prehistoric shrouds, hiding the peaty waters in its ancient curtains. There’s a silence that sounds like your own heartbeat from within the ground under your feet. And then your hair stands on end as the old call cronks through the awakening hours.
Even when there’s nothing to echo from the cry of the heron resonates and rings from the depths of before. Announcing the day, he floats overhead on oversized wings, bringing pterodactyl time to life over the woods of Anglezarke.
As old as these hills the heron brings the energy of newness to the crisp spring air, purging the last gasps of night before the burgeoning sunrise.