Dolphinholme

Saturday was another trip up to Lancaster, even further up North. I came up inadequately dressed, to the point of ridiculousness. I had been lulled into the wearing of short sleeve tops, and shoes without socks the last week in Falmouth, and had packed up my bag of clothes to come home accordingly. With one pair of socks as a concession to it being February. I’m fortunate not to have hypothermia today. The frost stuck around all day, and I spent much of the day almost sitting in the fire to keep warm in the farmhouse. I did at least take a coat with me, so we ventured out for a walk across the fields. By the time we got back, I could hardly speak my face was so cold; my feet were numb and my hands and fingernails were an intriguing shade of blue.

It was very beautiful though, and worth the cold. My cousins’ farmhouse is near Dolphinholme, set in acres of land and with the river Wyre running through. The sun sets magnificently across the fields, and with frost silvering the grass it had to be seen. It is one of the most peaceful and calming places I know, and whenever I go, I come away feeling younger. It is somehow timeless, but old, very old. The farm is called Street Farm: a Roman Road cuts through just beyond the farmhouse, which my cousin Eric excavated himself, just across the stream where he planted a weeping willow.

We have been set a task for a short photography course we are taking as part of the MA, the idea being to tell a story in five images, so I made good use of my camera and got some really nice images of the sun sinking behind the trees, and of the churchyard at Dolphinholme which is filled with crocuses and daffodils. Surprisingly, for being so far North, the daffodils were rivalling the ones I’d left in Cornwall and were full in bloom.
Today has also been one of still, winter beauty. The trees are stark against a sky the colour of a blood orange. It might snow, it just might. I really hope so.