Alicia Hayden
in partnership with Campaign for National Parks Foreword by Tiffany Francis-Baker
Copyright 2025 Alicia Hayden All rights reserved. “I, me, moor” (or any portion thereof ) may not be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the context of reviews. First published 2025 ISBN: 978-1-0369-1702-9 Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by The Holywell Press, Oxford Cover art by Alicia Hayden Illustrations Copyright 2025 Alicia Hayden Hand written font designed by Alicia Hayden 2025 For evermore, Forever Moor lyrics Copyright 2025 Sam Lightfoot-Loftus For evermore, Forever Moor Copyright 2025 Sam Lightfoot-Loftus and Loris Scarpa with additional vocals by Alice Wolff-Whitehouse Published in partnership with Campaign for National Parks
https://aliciahayden.co.uk/ https://www.cnp.org.uk/
Holywell Press
for everyone who has escaped onto the moors and their local National Park, and for everyone who hasn’t yet... I promise it’s magical
Foreword When I read this unique, ecological folk tale for the first time, I was thrown - as I always am - by Alicia’s creative vision. Perhaps it is because I am a mother that I could feel the pull of her story so strongly. The mother, the child, the magical moor in which they live. Three elements so intertwined that when they are separated, something breaks. True to Alicia’s invincible sense of hope, there are also moments of healing to counterbalance the pain of living so closely with nature, something we all need to keep our sights on within this remarkable fragment of history through which we are living. And beneath it all is the idea of home. We are often so encouraged to fly the nest, explore the world and make our millions that, when I returned permanently to my hometown in my early twenties, it almost felt like failure. Shouldn’t I be pushing myself out of my comfort zone and sampling the delights of a globalised society? But I quickly realised that home was my sanctuary - not the beautiful moors of Yorkshire that have so clearly inspired Alicia’s work, but the emerald hills of the UK’s newest National Park, the South Downs. The landscapes found within our National Parks are so exquisitely diverse that it often takes leaving them behind to recognise how lucky we are to live so close to them. I have also been lucky enough to know Alicia for several years now, and to follow her abundance of creative projects that continue to astonish, innovate, uplift and most importantly - provoke conversation. She is a true creative soul, and one whose thoughts, words and pictures have never been more valuable in the face of our strange and uncertain collective futures. I hope you enjoy this beautiful book as much as I did.
Tiffany Francis-Baker author & illustrator
I
She is
So small – her breath Hitching when she’s passed between the hands of grandparents and parents; aunts and uncles. She breathes out – a sign (content) when she’s back in the arms of her mother; cradled against the heather sprig that’s pinned in her buttonhole. I am here. She is here. She is me.
MOTHER She is The most perfect thing, I think to myself. I can’t believe she’s mine; I cannot believe I made her; I cannot believe I am so lucky. I take her outside – cradling her as I show her my home – her home – these moors, this land. You know this is your playground too? She doesn’t know yet, I suppose. How can she? She is only a few hours old and she doesn’t know that she is here, in my arms. She doesn’t know she is loved. I return inside, my back to the hills, and pass her to the others. Even though you will not remember this. I want you to know, you are loved.
MOOR Her little chubby fingers dig into my damp soil, and her little toes tap tap tap As she stumbles and falls and tries and tries She is so eager to run, and yet she can’t walk yet Her eyes are wide and curious – everything is alive to her and she’s so desperate to find everything She grabs my soil, the peat a dark glow in her fingers for a moment, and she pulls up.
You can do it, step – go on – you can do it But she doesn’t step She stands and looks UP At me – at my sky At the skylark which plunges suddenly down, crescendo-ing while it falls Do you feel it yet, little one, do you know – why it’s you?
MOTHER I bake because it calms me. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg transports me to our cottage in the Dales where I grew up, watching black grouse lek the same way city folk watch pigeons. And now the smell calms her – I like to think this is what she will remember – the grouse ge’-bac ge’-bac ge’-bac, will become associated with Grasmere gingerbread – with the Dales, with home. Currently, she’s trying to walk. Tottering in our garden, the peaty soil stains her little shoes, but she’s so determined. Determined to run – she is impatient and feisty and curious. I reach for the ginger and start cutting it into cubes, sugar plumes puff up like fungi spores – sweet but still making me sneeze when too much gets into my nose. And when I look out of the window, she’s standing. And I gasp, because my little girl, she’s standing all by herself, and then – she looks up. And I’m outside in a flash, sweeping her into my arms and swinging her round – the blues of the moor blurring as we spin together, until everything is a smudged watercolour painting, and she glows yellow, giggling in my arms.
MIMI Up. Bird. Fly?
MOTHER She is on my lap, the dog at my foot, and she on my lap. I stroke her hair and she stretches slightly, curls her little hands into tight little fists as she dreams. Next to me, the dog starts twitching, dreaming of galloping on the moors again – whilst outside, the wind thrashes angrily, rattling our shutters as desperate fingers pry open jars. I can almost hear it whispering let me in, let me in, let me in. I lift her onto my hip, she’s almost getting too heavy to do it now – not so small anymore, and carry her through to the kitchen to retrieve my mug of tea. The ceramic hot against my fingers, her breath warm against my neck.
MIMI The wind tastes of purple. It hurts my eyes, so I close them. I hold mamma – glowing orange.
II
MOOR I know that for her mother, it’s like she’s blinked and suddenly there’s a full human there, where there used to be a baby. She can dance barefoot in my peaty soil She can climb up stunted twisted conifers She can explore the furthest reaches of her home She wants to know how far she can go – she’s pushing, constantly. Mamma, can I do this? You’re not big enough yet, darling. There’s a fire lit in her eyes with every obstacle, and whether it’s pure grit, determination, or some sort of wild spirit from me, she pushes and twists and succeeds – every time. Every. Time.
MOTHER She is still small, and yet her independence cuts me like a knife sometimes. When walking hand in hand on the moors, she pulls away suddenly Mamma I can do it! And she’s running as fast as she can, and I’m after her, laughing – delight dipped in fear – what if she falls? What if she breaks? What if she hurts? She falls into nettles and the dog bounds up to her – licking her spotting face while she giggles and cries; a mix of ecstasy from her bid of freedom, and shame from the painful kisses blooming up her bare legs. I scoop her up, the nettles pinch my skin, but I don’t feel them – you were like this once too – kiss her cheek and wipe the tears that bleed from her eyes. She beams Mumma! I did it! The skylarks erupt into song, harmonising with my laughter as I cradle her to my chest, the most precious thing.
MOOR My seasons lull me – it is peaceful, my changing – like shedding coats. It feels so refreshing; one day I am lemon yellow, glowing with gorse – and the next I am pulling on my summer slacks and a brilliant purple, alit with heather.
Today though, it is the burning. My purple coats smoulder on the edges, my cuffs catching – I watch as the smoke blooms, tendrils floating into the clouds like smoky jellyfish. I feel alive, soft peaty earth and smoke-filled lungs – breathe in and out – calm. She is locked away today – and I feel her restlessness. The smoke would sting her eyes, so she watches – nose pressed against shuttered windows, until (inevitably) she gets bored, and prances away. Into the depths of her house, where the wood fire sits – unlit, and her pencils sit – expectant.
MIMI Everyone seems excited about this month, but I don’t get it. I’m going to school and I’m “such a big girl”, but this just feels sad (to me). The bus is slow and the road is windy, and I feel sick after five minutes trapped in a stuffy tin with twelve others. But I remember that Mumma said – I mustn’t do anything to embarrass myself, and perhaps being sick would be embarrassing… So instead, I clutch the dried strand of heather that I put in my coat pocket (yellow, too big for me), and play with the pink bells which almost fall apart as soon as I touch them. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. It’s a mantra – I whisper it to myself over and over. Over, until the bus pulls in front of a building which says it is a “school”.
Tumbling out, the others are scampering after each other – but I am stopping and tilting my head up. A burst of orange swirls. Blackbird. I see you.
MOTHER Her first day and I wonder – does she miss home? Did she cry? How was her journey? The wind is gentle today, and when I walk the dog amongst the yellowing tufts, the breeze feels like hands brushing against my cheek, an embrace (of sorts). It’s as if, it’s comforting me. She is a child of the moors after all.
MIMI The weekends are my favourite parts of every week, because I can dance barefoot in our garden and tease the dog and pull up the leeks which grow up – up – up – despite the early frost. Mamma says I am a “wild child” – and then she puts on jazz, and I am spinning to the magenta swirls, bouncing with the green-pea beats. I told her once – “I like the purple song”, and she was so confused – The skylarks are such colourful pinpricks, and when I dance around our garden, finding berries in the bushes to make potions, I listen to the orange swirls of blackbirds – warmth like autumn fires. I feel. I feel the moor.
III
MOOR The snow falls deep – a blanket, it’s almost warm. And her eyes shine – iridescent – as she opens her palms to the sky, pulling the snow down. Hair flowing down her back, wild. Moor child, wild child – pulling the weather back into patterns, into predictability. It’s a difficult job – she didn’t take to it at first. But, the grouse call to her in red whirling wheels of sound – she knows she’s destined for this. Something which hops down the generations – why else would this family still live here, in this house, in this place. She presses her hands together, gently, grazes her fingers gently on the snow that lays my earth. A blessing of sorts. Thank you, wild one.
MOTHER She’s late (again). And, I shouldn’t be surprised (you were like this at her age. You were worse), but it still stings. Mimi! Get down here! She skips down, curls wild but eyes sharp. What is it, mum? There is a tilt of her jaw, paint splashes on her fingertips and mud on the rims of her trouser legs. We need to go, it’s a long drive. She sighs. Do we have to go? Her eyes flick to the window, watching the house sparrows chirping in the bush outside. I’d rather stay here, I can feed the birds while you’re gone, keep an eye on the dog? She knows it’s not as simple as that, of course. Come on, love. I reach for her hand – often, now, she doesn’t take it, but today she does. I click open the door, letting the crisp air in.
MIMI Curlews make me homesick. Their whooping call is one of my favourite sounds – it is purple and sometimes blue. It is always in loops and cartwheels – both melancholy, ghostly, yet somewhat hopeful and even joyous. The city feels grey, though. There is still colour, of course. In the cracks on the pavement – there are literal colours. Dandelions poking their sunny heads out like nosy neighbours, who have no real business being as beautiful as they are. Perhaps if they weren’t so common, people would actually notice how gorgeous their vibrancy is. And the colours of the cityscape too – jazz music that lights up the night, but often even that is hard to hear against the background of sirens and traffic. It is here that I miss the moor the most too. I can’t keep an eye on the weather, on the seedlings, on the chicks. Sometimes I ask mum to let me know how everything is doing – but it’s still hard to gauge the land without seeing how the colours thread across the hills. The closest I get to bursts of colours is the parakeets. They sit on the chimneys – watching. And I honestly love them. Their laughing calls split the sky, as vibrant as their grape-green plumage. Even on the worst days, I see them (hear them), and I am alive – I am smiling – I am, me.
MOTHER I’ve never known weather like it. The climate has become more and more unpredictable as I’ve got older, but it is much worse when Mimi is away for long periods. It’s like she’s got something that, when here, roots the place – stabilising it. I think she’s aware of it too, somehow. She hates leaving for long periods of time – but she also wanted to study. Sometimes I still think about watching her, driving away in her little yellow car to the big city, whilst the curlews cried.
MOOR She must come home. The smoke burns stronger, now and for longer Cries of curlew, skylark, buzzard unanswered. where is she? I feel the mycorrhizal lines, neon – sparking Broken electricity lines a connection - - -
f r a c t u r e d She struggles – to balance all the things required of her. Studies, a job, friends, relationships, family – and, the moor. This land. Our home.
IV
MIMI Suddenly, it’s been years. And I’m traipsing a path I’ve known my whole life – that I go back and tend, but that I haven’t properly lived in for years. The peaty soil is damp, but it feels lifeless – and a pebble of anxiety sinks within me. Mother was right. The moor is dying. There is something so soft, about its rhythms. But the threads of colour, they’re breaking, fragmenting. Skylarks no longer split the sky, and I am suddenly feeling horribly sick. I collapse into my mother’s arms, and she strokes my hair. What have we done? What have we done?
MOOR Wild one?
MIMI A balance. Mother says we need balance, so I dig my hands into the peaty earth and whisper and pull and find the threads that connect the seeds – open my eyes and my ears and call as loud as I can. I do this every day, for a week. I am whispering to the moor – whispering and nurturing it. It will live.
MOTHER She is a wild child. I lean against the door frame and watch her, out there, like she was when she was four years old. She is the moor child. And it will live.
Acknowledgements I, me, moor wouldn’t have been possible without funding and support from the Campaign for National Park’s New Perspectives Storytellers Grant, made possible by the National Lottery Heritage Fund. Thank you in particular to Anna, Lily, and Harriet, who have been incredibly supportive with feedback and encouragement throughout the entire process, whilst I’ve been creating this strange little story! I’d also love to thank the other Campaign for National Parks New Perspectives Storytellers 2024/5 cohort - it’s been a joy bouncing ideas with you all! A big thank you to my early readers and editors – Catherine Mason, Anna Kenny, Zoe Cousins, and the Campaign for National Parks team. Your early comments and tweaks helped shaped I, me, moor into something I’m excited to share with the world. A huge thank you to the wonderful musicians who have created a score which runs alongside I, me, moor. Sam and his bandmate Loris from Evolution of Fishermen – hearing you bring this to life, and add another dimension to the moors and the beauty of the northern national parks has been a magical experience. There are honestly so many people I’ve love to thank for this – who have inspired me in small ways, and helped this story come to life – but a particular thank you to Fred (for keeping me sane and accountable), Claire (for laughs and boundless support), Ellen, Steph, and Connor (for being the ultimate hype crew), and for the BTO YAP gang (all of whom provide me with support and keep my love for the natural world alive with their positivity). There are many others, but this will suffice for now! A giant thank you to my parents - Catherine and John, to Imogen, and to Coco - thank you for believing in me, and for encouraging me to love the moors. Without you, none of this would be possible. Finally, thank you to YOU! For reading my little ecological fairytale - whether you’ve only just found my work, or you’ve been with me for a while, the fact you want to interact with things I create means the world to me. I hope that I, me, moor makes you want to delve into the moors and National Parks! Alicia x
I, me, moor - For evermore, Forever Moor Something I felt quite strongly about when working up the ideas for this book was that it needed to have music. Song and sound are so prevalent throughout I, me, moor, due to Mimi’s synaesthesia, that I really wanted to emphasise this, and bring it to life. Sam is a talented folk musician, also hailing from North Yorkshire - having worked together on my film ‘The Lost Songstress’ (2024), I knew he would be perfect in bringing to life each of the seasons of I, me, moor. Sam wrote four songs, one for each season, which he then worked on with fellow bandmate Loris Scarpa to bring to life. You can read the songs from For evermore, Forever Moor over the next few pages. The songs are produced and recorded by Loris Scarpa. You can listen to For evermore, Forever Moor by heading over to my YouTube channel or Instagram (@aliciahaydenwildlife), or scanning the QR code below:
For evermore, Forever Moor
It grows through the morning The smallness of her step, how delicate her breath In time For Snow lined skies to soften And reaching for the light, her hands and the violets Bloom And here her eyes are calling So desperate to find, the sight of what’s behind The door A purple wind this morning Swept by in the night, and now within her sight She runs… And like the skylark I can’t tame you The dampened soil it won’t contain you To live is to grow Faster than I know To reach to own A hand to hold If only for you Put time In a tomb If only for you A purple wind this morning Swept by in the night, and now within her sight She runs…
I heard it early in the fox’s bark Crisp as the snowfall that comes gently after dark Footsteps come sneaking, creaking open the door Grass under barefoot, arms stretched open to soar For evermore Forever moor Tell me O tell me dear what can you see When you leap skyward and fall headfirst into the stream When warm light softens skin and your tears do pour When your eyes widen and learn what I have taught
Awaken now it’s time to leave High buttoned collar, boots like these Bite in the air, a familiar breeze Awaken now it’s time to leave I felt her go when the leaves did fall Railroads littered brown and gold A look from behind and a bag on board I felt her go when the leaves did fall Don’t forget what’s in the trees These thoughts of yours where colours bleed And as we touch I heard her speak Don’t forget what’s in the trees The blackened smoke it burns the sky With dust and broken electric lines A darkened moon from the last sunrise The blackened smoke it burns the sky Only ask you don’t stay too long Don’t miss the Lark and the Curlew’s song Lead with your heart and a head so strong Only ask you don’t stay too long
I return to our land Beneath the old oak tree Wet boot prints I did leave From travelling over sea
And asking you to stay My eyes they turn to where You burrowed long ago In spring with weather fair
A break in the blade Of grass where I did land So I lie o I lie On an old patch of land
But in this season change The ghost of me does stray To shed her final leaves And bring colour to the grey
Back to where I first saw you Your snout throughout hedgerow Your eyes as sharp as ice Your steps as light as snow And should I call for you My breath to warm the air To hear where I should go But to, I don’t know where And I should reach for you My oldest friend Forevermore
And I should reach for you My oldest friend Forever Moor And I should reach for you My oldest friend My oldest friend
About Campaign for National Parks Campaign for National Parks is the only independent charity dedicated to securing the future of National Parks in England and Wales. Our independence from Government means we can speak out for Protected Landscapes when no-one else can. Founded in 1936, we bring together a campaigning collective of organisations and individuals from all walks of life, united in common cause. Our first campaigns resulted in the creation of our National Parks. Now, inspired by our past, we fight for the future. Campaign for National Parks’ New Perspectives project first launched in 2021 with the aim to give young people from diverse backgrounds the opportunity to influence and connect with decision makers to change the narratives on who National Parks are for and who has a say in their future. Since then we’ve worked with some incredible young people to share their stories and explore themes close to their heart. In 2024 we were grateful to be awarded funding from the National Lottery Heritage Fund to grow the project and connect even more young people with National Parks over the next two years, thank you to National Lottery players. The project consists of many different aspects; a variety of grants for young people to share their stories of National Parks, our Future Leaders Course which provides campaigning and leadership skills to inspire future leaders, as well as recruiting youth ambassadors and providing in person opportunities for young people to engage with and influence decision makers. Learn more about the projects at cnp.org.uk/new-perspectives and follow along on social media. Bluesky @campaign4parks.bsky.social Instagram @campaign4parks Facebook /campaignfornationalparks LinkedIn /campaignfornationalparks
About Sam & Evolution of Fishermen Sam Lightfoot-Loftus is a musician from Yorkshire. Primarily working in the folk genre, Sam plays and writes in the contemporary-folk band ‘Evolution of Fishermen’. The band released their debut EP, Days Like These, which has received multiple features on BBC Introducing and was launched with a sell-out gig at St. Bartholomew the Great’s church in London in May 2024. The music for I, Me, Moor was co-written and produced with fellow band member Loris Scarpa who worked tirelessly on these tracks both compositionally and technically. Additional vocals were by Alice Wolff-Whitehouse. You can find out more about Sam and Evolution of Fishermen by following them on social media: Evolution of Fishermen - @eofishermen Sam Lightfoot-Loftus - @sam_lightfoot_loftus
Sam, photography by James Drury
Loris, photography by Salvatore Scarpa
About Alicia Alicia is a creative conservationist and wildlife artist from North Yorkshire, now based in Bristol. She has a degree in Biological Sciences from the University of Oxford, and a Master’s in Wildlife Filmmaking from the University of the West of England. Through her background as a scientist and her love of the arts, Alicia merges the two to tell artistic stories about the natural world, and is a multi-award-winning artist, photographer, filmmaker, and writer. Alicia sits on the British Trust for Ornithology’s Youth Advisory Panel, and Whitley Fund for Nature’s Next Generation committee. She is a Daler-Rowney Artist, and has worked for organisations including BBC Studios, David Shepherd Wildlife Foundation, On the Edge, the University of Oxford, and many more. Alicia has been writing stories since she was very young - her background in poetry means she has a rhythmic, gentle writing style - lending itself to ecological fairytales and short stories, of which I, moor, me is her first to be published.
Other works Poetry collections Rain before Rainbows (December 2020) Every Dune is a Mountain (June 2022) Multi-coloured Ghost Towns (December 2023) Anthologies Connections with Nature: 50 moments of meeting the wild (October 2021) Into the Red (October 2022) Mini-collections Tales from the Forgotten Wood (August 2021) Pastel dreams in Golden Skies (December 2021) The Skylark splits the Sky (January 2022) Every Dune is a Mountain (June 2022) And in this Starlit Sea (July 2022) Sing for me, your sweet, sweet song (December 2022) Colours burst and Elephants roar (May 2023) Art books And through the Darkness, I see (December 2022) Extinction (May 2023) Wild things and how to draw them (March 2025)
“The skylarks erupt into song, harmonising with my laughter as I cradle her to my chest, the most precious thing.” The moors are a magical, mythical place - I, me, moor is a new take at folklore. Mimi’s family has always lived in the North Yorkshire Moors National Parks; her mother rocks her whilst been serenaded by skylarks, and Mimi grows up playing surrounded by peat and gorse in the garden. For Mimi, the sounds which bring her moor to life are coloured - purple swirls, golden loops - her life is intimately connected to that of the moor. So when Mimi moves away, what will happen to the moor in her wake?
An original, utterly compelling prose-poem from the multi-talented Alicia Hayden, celebrating the fragility of life in one of Britain’s wildest places. Stephen Moss, author & naturalist I, Me, Moor is like someone found a book of love poetry from my youth to the place I grew up. Hayden captures the beauty, magic and illusory nature of the moors in the most heart wrenching way, asking us to not just admire it, but also to protect it before we lose it. This is a treasure of a book. Roisin Taylor, co-director at UKY4N & flower farmer Our connection to landscapes is deep rooted - Landscapes that often providing solace, escape and home not only for us, but also so much amazing wildlife. Alicia has captured the wild, untameable spirit of the moor, casting a spell that transports us to a place bursting with life, but nonetheless vulnerable to a changing world through words and illustration. A truly magical read! Jamey Douglas, artist & illustrator