Going Places

As we're experiencing such wonderful weather at the moment, I decided after work that it would be a fantastic idea to walk up through Ellel into Galgate to grab some photographs. After all, there's nothing like perpetual sheets of drizzle, and wind that threatens to propel you into an impromptu Mary Poppins impression, to wake you up post-labore.

So, drenched from head to foot and with a gale using my aural passages as a wind-tunnel, I managed to arrive in Galgate feeling only slightly like someone had dunked my head in liquid nitrogen. It was there that I chanced upon a very wet horse, which, aside from being the only sentient creature in a five-mile radius more miserable than me, also turned out to be a little bit mad. In fact, as soon as I started taking pictures it began to hop around in an odd fashion. I didn't even know horses could hop, but there you go.

Of all the pictures I took this was the only half-decent one, and I selected it for blipping because I was struck by the three different modes of historical transportation represented; equestrian in the foreground, rail in the background, and our petrol-belching slice of modernity nestled between them. In fact, if only I'd found a way to stick my legs in the shot, you'd have had four modes of transportation, because without the money for bus-fare, I had a five-mile walk home to look forward to. Not a pleasant prospect. But between that and spending the evening in a rain-lashed backwater with only a mental horse for company, I think I chose the vaguely sensible option.

I'm now home and relatively dry. The good news is that I can nearly feel my face again, and I'll only be needing seven of my fingers amputated. And I can assure you that the only place I will be going this evening is to the tea cupboard in the kitchen and back. Quite a few times, in all likelihood.