Pen y Ghent the third of the Three Peaks, has always struck me as an anomaly retaining its native British name. Perhaps a sign that the descendants of the Brigantes tribe still lived and held on to these lands long into history and the control of later kings was only superficial.

In the snow fields of a hard winter this mountain, whose profile reminds me of one of Landseer’s noble seated lions from Trafalgar Square, transforms into formidable obstacle. Perhaps this is the “mountain of the winds”, the possible meaning of its ancient name? Indeed as the cloud bubbles up and scrapes the top of the summit it is easy to imagine intense winds dragging across the same rocky head.

I try to paint moments in a place where something unusual happens, a transformation, something fleeting. Here the rose pink of the last light spills across the deep snow bursts onto the craggy flanks of the mountain lifting it temporarily from shadow blue of the snow fields. It seems to have almost detached from the land and become part of the bellowing cloud.