boxfrenzy
Well-known member
- Joined
- Apr 16, 2008
- Messages
- 86
- Reaction score
- 36
Below me, lorries and cars crawl over Saddleworth moor on the M62, the highest motorway in England. The motorway splits around Stott Hall farm, (the second most famous farm in Britain?) due to problems with geology when the motorway was built. I've gone underneath both carraigeways and I'm nearly there.
The farmstead was built on the northern slopes of Moss Moor, and is partly ruined.
The track to the farm is overgrown and forgotten. Climbing over a gate, I'm here.
In an outhouse, strange and dangerous looking farming machinery is left, slowly rusting.
Carved into the lintel above the door is the date 1662. I guess the initials are the name of the person who built the house, three hundred and forty seven years ago.
The house is empty, save for wooden troughs for animal feed. Straw covers the floor.
I say empty. A range is set into the fireplace. It will have been a long time since this heated the house.
Looking through into the back room. Remains of blue paint peels from the rough walls.
Steps to nowhere. Up here, the roof has gone, and the upper floor collapsed.
In the hall way, a rusting milk churn is disgarded.
I love the light in here. The whole house feels warm and safe. It would have needed to be, with the weather conditions up here.
Up another stone staircase to the bedroom. Generations of the family would have been born, and died in this room. Late afternoon light falls on the straw, and a breeze stirs a few dead leaves before they fall still.
I love the history of these places, the passing of the seasons, and the people that once lived here. The sun came out for a minute as I left and I got a last shot.
The farmstead was built on the northern slopes of Moss Moor, and is partly ruined.
The track to the farm is overgrown and forgotten. Climbing over a gate, I'm here.
In an outhouse, strange and dangerous looking farming machinery is left, slowly rusting.
Carved into the lintel above the door is the date 1662. I guess the initials are the name of the person who built the house, three hundred and forty seven years ago.
The house is empty, save for wooden troughs for animal feed. Straw covers the floor.
I say empty. A range is set into the fireplace. It will have been a long time since this heated the house.
Looking through into the back room. Remains of blue paint peels from the rough walls.
Steps to nowhere. Up here, the roof has gone, and the upper floor collapsed.
In the hall way, a rusting milk churn is disgarded.
I love the light in here. The whole house feels warm and safe. It would have needed to be, with the weather conditions up here.
Up another stone staircase to the bedroom. Generations of the family would have been born, and died in this room. Late afternoon light falls on the straw, and a breeze stirs a few dead leaves before they fall still.
I love the history of these places, the passing of the seasons, and the people that once lived here. The sun came out for a minute as I left and I got a last shot.
