Tag: fenland

Holme Fen

Holme Fen

A beautifully created nature collage using materials found on a walk to illustrate that walk and the Fens. From Lesley Allen, the creator: My version of Holme Fen – re-created by debris found on the woodland floor at Holme Fen. The toadstools are acorn cups 

Fenland Farming

Fenland Farming

Sugar beet harvesting – one day in three photographs

Vivien House

Vivien House

A Linocut printmaker from Ramsey, Vivien has been inspired by Fenland Fauna (and a beautiful Giraffe!) and has produced these during lockdown.

Featured Image:

Pheasant hand coloured Linoprint

“I love the vibrancy watercolour brings to this handsome fellow.”

Vivien tells us:

“I am a Linocut printmaker from Ramsey Cambridgeshire. I take my inspiration from nature, I especially enjoy carving birds from the fenland landscape. I have found printing a welcome focus and distraction during lockdown. I love the crispness the media offers and combining this with the introduction of colour through hand colouring with watercolours and printing on marbled papers brings another dimension to the subjects.
I am excited to see where each new lino takes me. I have an idea in mind of the final look but I also let them evolve as I carve.”

My favourite Owl, to see a Barn Owl hunting at dusk feels like a truly ethereal moment. These elegant birds always hold my attention.
This carving was a commission completed during lockdown. The marbled paper background really adds to the subject to evoke the atmosphere of the Serengeti.
Skies – Anita Bowles

Skies – Anita Bowles

Anita has been out and about again and shared her new photos with us! Look at those Fenland Skies!

Julie Baker

Julie Baker

My name is Julie Baker and I live in Sutton, a village on the edge of Sutton Gault and the Washes, an area of fen which is allowed to flood throughout the winter months. This landscape is the inspiration for my gouache paintings which are 

In the Wash

In the Wash

By local author Diane Calton Smith.

‘In The Wash’ is a Fenland History set in the time of King John. The loss of his baggage train in the Wash in 1216 has become interwoven with local legend and we have no way of knowing any more what really happened. There are too many theories and there is too little evidence.

see more on her page here

We decided to add the book to the map as a nod to the river being a part of the town, but also a part of the wider history of the area. The river Nene goes out to the Wash.

Six Miles – Leanne Moden

Six Miles – Leanne Moden

Six miles, again, we’ll go today…

Fen Pumpkins

Fen Pumpkins

by C J Mawganson (see also Poetry) “I love how pumpkins carpet the Fen fields in the autumn. They glow burning orange in the weakening sun. Way too delicious to carve and throw away.”

Neill Robinson – Black and White

Neill Robinson – Black and White

From Neill:

“These were all taken at various points during lockdown. I live in Guyhirn so a lot are of the surrounding area around the village, as for a long time we weren’t really allowed to go elsewhere! The exceptions being of 2 from King’s Lynn one from Hunstanton and one from Wolferton.”

(see our other photography categories to complete the set of Neill’s work)

Instagram: @Neill.Robinson

Neill Robinson – Nature

Neill Robinson – Nature

From Neill: “These were all taken at various points during lockdown. I live in Guyhirn so a lot are of the surrounding area around the village, as for a long time we weren’t really allowed to go elsewhere! The exceptions being of 2 from King’s 

Fen Blow – C J Mawganson

Fen Blow – C J Mawganson

Feel the Fen Blow bey…

Seasickness – Leanne Moden

Seasickness – Leanne Moden

Here, there is clarity. A raw, persistent

truth – a cold disparity – hidden beneath

these tessellating fields. Fields stitched

by ditches to a muddy canvas. An after-

thought, a lost and lonely landmass.

Marshes marred by the harshness of

weather-worn trees. Each movement

of their aching limbs born of necessity.

That seasickness, which rises when

tracing that unaltered horizon, will

never fade. It is the price we pay to

come and stare into the eyes of gods,

to see ourselves, scratched and scattered

across unending skies and be reminded

just how much it mattered. The paling

moonlight dies, submerged and sinking,

but never fully sunk. No dampened way

of thinking, drunk on every part of these

wild and weary, sun-smeared fens. I’ll walk

each lonesome plough line, now as then.