I’m the only person left in the conservatory and the silence is blissful. There is 21st century parlour music possibly coming from the restaurant next door and the distant rattle of cups and saucers, with occasional cutlery.
Morecambe is full of rain and while the sky is dazzling me with its pale greyness there is not a jot of sunlight. The sea is a marginally darker shade of grey and I am becoming happier by the minute at the lack of internet access. The lawn is the most colour-saturated thing I’ve seen in the north west.
The Eric Gill (sans) medallion on the ceiling above the circular stairwell was inspired by the following William Wordsworth poem:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not–Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.