A cool, dry day - no sunshine to speak of. In the afternoon I did a little exploring. I went on a jaunt to photograph Foxon's Lodge, the abandoned farmhouse, a five minute walk down the road.
The farmhouse lies at the bottom of a valley; the track is steep and lined with ancient apple trees that lean to the south - weathered by the prevailing north wind.
I have found a little history of the place.
Alfred Foxon and his wife Harriet moved here in the 1920's and farmed the land around what was then called Peashill Farm. Alfred was one of thirteen children and Harriet bore him four girls and four boys. One of the sons, Reg, and his brother Alf, took over the farm after the second World War and ran it until the 1970's when it was sold. The land is still used but the farmhouse remains empty and has steadily become derelict.
It is always sad to see, that, which was once a home, fall in to disrepair; the window glass all gone and the roof falling in; the farmyard overgrown with weeds.
I look through the windows and let my imagination take flight: A home that would have rung with the sound of children's laughter; the clank of milk pails from the dairy; hens clucking and scratching around the yard; the heavy horses that pulled the plough and hay cart; mother at the stove cooking rashers of bacon and eggs fresh from the coop for breakfast - a very different sight from what it is today.
Of course, it was probably nothing like that but occasionally I put on my rosy-tinted spectacles and dream.
by Dennis Go
Made to undress
In the wilderness
See forth a cue.
Passes through their walls
Stripped by dust.
Roam and clutter
Around echoing voices
Left by souls
Years and years ago.