For this Halloween I thought I would try something a bit different and try my hand at writing a ghost story, with a little help from AI... This story is set in a location in Bath and is a semi fiction story, based on some real life events and experiences by real people in that location over the years, with names changed. The Customers that never left.... The restaurant in one of Baths most historical and affluent areas had opened only six months before, its proprietors keen to boast that it was “modern dining within a piece of Bath’s history.” The building had once been Elliston & Co, a grand department store frequented by the city’s most fashionable ladies and in its heyday a destination for royalty. Though the marble counters and mahogany cabinets had long since been replaced by gleaming tables and silver cutlery, the air still carried the faint scent of lavender polish and time. It was a handsome space — lofty windows, ornate plasterwork, and a graceful wooden staircase curving to a mezzanine bar. Yet after closing, when the laughter and the music had faded, the building changed. Its echoes lengthened, its shadows grew bold, and the staff began to whisper. The first to notice was the chef, a practical man with no patience for tales. One regular early Friday morning, while prepping for the busy day ahead, he heard a sharp rapping upon the long window that was between the kitchen and restaurant, at that point in time it was covered over to conceal the kitchen from the restaurant and distractions beyond. Three loud booming knocks — slow, deliberate, as though delivered by a gloved hand. He froze, the knife slipping from his fingers. Beyond the glass lay the empty restaurant, still as a grave in the early morning, as he was the only living soul in the building. When he pressed his palm to the glass, it stung with cold, though the room behind him was warm. A week later, the waitress — a timid girl named Lisa — began to complain of a presence that followed her after hours. She could feel it when she moved between the tables to polish cutlery or gather napkins. It was not merely unease, but the distinct impression of someone standing close behind her, breathing softly. Once she turned so swiftly that her ponytail whipped her shoulder, and she caught a whiff of violets — an old perfume, cloying yet delicate, gone almost before she noticed. The bar staff laughed, until they too began to hear the footsteps . They came from the wide original stairwell that led from the front door, slow and measured — the step of a man ascending while carrying a heavy load. Each night the tread reached the landing, paused, and faded. When the barman dared to go and have a look, the stairs lay empty, though the air was thick with the smell of dust and old cloth. Their manager, a Bath native with a fondness for local history, began to enquire. The archives told him that in 1924, Elliston & Co. had suffered two tragedies. A lady shopper, overcome by some sudden seizure, had died in the shoe department before assistance could be fetched. Not three months later, a gentleman clerk had fallen from a stockroom ladder and broken his neck. There had been talk of ill luck, then the matter was quietly forgotten. After that discovery, the staff grew more cautious. They never spoke openly of “ghosts,” yet a silent understanding spread among them. The waitress avoided the far end of the dining room after midnight; the barman never went down to the cellar alone, as that was also a very scary dark and frightening area with a heavy oppressive feeling as it was under the very old vaults at the bottom of the building. The chef, though he mocked them all, had begun to whistle as he worked — but after that one day, the knocking never happened again to his knowledge. But things were about to take an even spookier turn- One November night, a heavy fog crept up from the river. The city’s lights burned dimly behind it, and within Elliston’s Restaurant, the world felt muffled and apart. The staff lingered after closing, reluctant to step outside. The bar lights glowed low, the last glasses polished. Then came the footsteps again — clear, deliberate, climbing the stair from the cellar. Everyone froze. The barman exchanged a glance with Lisa, whose face had gone pale as milk. Slowly, he crossed the floor and opened the door, then within it, the faint outline of a man appeared — tall, stooped slightly at the shoulders, dressed in dark waistcoat and rolled shirtsleeves. He ascended the final step and halted, looking about as though puzzled to find strangers in his place of work. The light flickered against his face, and they saw it was drained of all colour, like smoke trapped in glass. Behind him, the faint rustle of skirts drifted from the hallway. A woman’s figure emerged, an older lady pale and fine-boned, her hat pinned neatly, her gloved hand resting upon a small handbag. Her gaze travelled over the dining room — the tables, the linen, the flickering candle on the bar — with mild curiosity, as though seeking something once familiar. The chef dropped his towel. Lucy gave a small gasp. The lady turned toward the sound, her expression gentle, uncertain. “Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice the faintest echo of air through silk, “might you direct me to the haberdashery?” No one answered. The barman could only nod toward the stairwell. The lady inclined her head with a gracious smile, then turned to the ghostly clerk beside her. Together they descended the steps, the air growing still in their wake. When at last the fog cleared and silence returned, the staff stood motionless for some time. Then the chef, in a trembling hand, poured a small glass of sherry and set it upon the counter beneath the mirror. It became a custom after that — a quiet offering whenever the lights dimmed and the building creaked with memory. The mirror above the bar, once bright, now held a faint smudge that no polishing could remove — two silhouettes side by side, caught forever in the reflection. And though Elliston’s no longer sold gloves or silks, those who worked the late shifts swore that, sometimes, in the hush before dawn, the scent of violets still drifted through the room. For even now, the last customers had yet to leave. © PWallace/ Bath & Somerset Paranormal Images © Somerset Paranormal

The Mystical Yews of Somerset In Somerset’s folklore, the yew tree stands as both guardian and gatekeeper — an ancient sentinel woven into myths of death, rebirth, and the unseen worlds beyond. Whispered tales speak of yews as living thresholds to the underworld, their roots said to intertwine with the bones of the dead, binding life and death in an eternal embrace. One local legend even tells of a Devil’s pact that prevented a hundredth yew from ever growing in a churchyard, ensuring the balance between sacred and infernal remained unbroken. For centuries, yews have been planted beside graves and church walls, their dark evergreen boughs symbolising immortality, resurrection, and protection from evil. To the ancients, their longevity was proof of otherworldly power — a living bridge between mortal and divine. Symbolic Associations Gateway to the Underworld: Revered for their age and proximity to death, yews were seen as portals between this world and the next. Immortality: Evergreen and enduring, the yew embodies eternal life — a symbol of unending renewal and the spirit’s persistence beyond decay. Death and Resurrection: With its capacity to regenerate from seemingly lifeless wood, the yew mirrors the eternal cycle of dying and rebirth so central to Celtic belief. Protection: Churchyards were often planted with yews to guard against malevolent spirits, their sacred presence believed to purify the resting dead. Somerset’s Local Lore The Chilcompton Yew: This ancient tree is said to mark a place where the dying once came to pass into the next world — a site where mortal breath faded into ancestral spirit. Some call it a “gateway tree,” where souls crossed from life into legend. The ancient yew tree at Chilcompton church is estimated to be over 1,800 years old. (first photo) The 99 Yew Trees Legend: While best known at St. Mary’s in Painswick, the tale echoes through Somerset’s sacred groves. It is said that when the ninety-ninth yew was planted, the Devil himself forbade the hundredth to grow, cursing any attempt to complete the number. The yew tree at Holcombe Old Church is believed to be around 1,500 years old. It is estimated to have existed even before the Norman church, which was consecrated in 928 AD (third photo) Across Britain, such stories remind us that the yew’s presence is as much spiritual as it is botanical — a symbol of balance between light and shadow. Other Folklore The yew’s poisonous beauty has long inspired awe and fear. Witches were said to use its wood and needles in dark workings, while travellers were warned of the vapours that gathered beneath its branches. In old graveyard lore, it was whispered that yew roots crept through the eye sockets of the buried dead — holding them in place and binding their spirits to sacred ground. Yew trees were the preferred material for making English longbows because of their strength and flexibility. The wood's combination of hard, compression-resistant heartwood and flexible, tension-resistant sapwood was ideal for a longbow, and yew was used for centuries, contributing to English military success and played a crucial role in English victories during the Hundred Years' War at battles like Crecy, Poitiers, and Agincourt. © Somerset History & Mystery Images - Somerset Photography St Vigors - Stratton on the Fosse St Johns - Chilcompton St Andrews - Mells Old Church - Holcombe

The Dual Magic of the Blackthorn: Somerset’s Dark and Sacred Tree In Somerset folklore, the blackthorn tree (Prunus spinosa) walks a fine line between the sacred and the sinister. Its gnarled branches and cruel thorns have long stirred both fear and fascination—earning it a place in local legends as a tree of witches, fairies, and miracles alike. Witchcraft and Dark Omens: Dark, twisted, and defensive by nature, the blackthorn has long been woven into tales of witchcraft and ill fate. Folklore holds that witches fashioned their wands and staffs from its wood—its spines said to carry curses or even draw blood for dark spells. To stumble upon a blackthorn grove at night was once thought a bad omen, a warning that the old magic of the woods still lingered. Winter, Fairies, and the Dark Mother: In Celtic lore, the blackthorn belongs to Cailleach, the ancient winter goddess. Wielding a blackthorn staff, she was said to stir up storms and frost until spring’s return. In Somerset, this connection deepened the tree’s mystical status: to harm or cut it without cause risked offending the fairies said to dwell among its branches. Despite its thorns, however, blackthorn wood was also carried as protection—walking sticks made from it were thought to guard their bearer against evil. A Tree of Shadows and Light: Feared as a witch’s ally yet revered as a bearer of miracles, the blackthorn embodies the dual nature of old English magic. In its dark thickets lies both danger and blessing—a reminder that in folklore, as in nature, beauty and power often dwell side by side. For more like this check out my Facebook page - h ttps://www.facebook.com/SomersetBathHistoryandMystery/ Image - Somerset Photography #folklore #somerset #somersetfolklore #magic

Hello everyone, thank you to anyone who is a regular visitor to my blog, and apologies for the lack of new material lately. Its been a quiet Summer and sadly it seems there are not very many new ghost stories and experiences to unearth and share with you lately. I would rather share new and exciting paranormal locations and stories than rehash over the same places... So with that in mind, does anyone out there have a spooky, chilling or strange tale to tell? Maybe a unforgettable strange experience at your workplace, have you visited somewhere in Somerset and left with a chill down your back and thoughts of 'What was that ? Or have you recently heard a local ghostly story that has been whispered through generations and has just come to light ? I am looking for guest writers and people who wish to share their most spine-tingling paranormal experiences, have you seen something you cant explain this year? Along with taking a deep dive into the historical details and research around your location and experience, your story could be featured on my Facebook pages and this blog, bringing your account to a captivated audience of fellow believers and curious minds and added to my ever growing journal of paranormal experiences in Somerset. Full credit can be given, or you may choose to remain anonymous. Keeping location in secrecy is perfectly acceptable if that’s your wish. I am interested in the areas around Bath and North East Somerset, Mendips, Wells, Frome, Midsomer Norton mainly. If you’re intrigued and just want to offload and share, simply send me an email... somersetparanormal@yahoo.com Thank you .. Artwork - PJW Artworks

A Somerset Ghost Story from an Anonymous Contributor, in their own words.. In 1978 (I believe Saturday September 23rd) a friend and I booked a weeks holiday in Somerset, in an old farm cottage, for the week fishing. The holiday started off a little strangely in as much that, my friend being an excellent map reader, couldn't find the house we wanted...even though we knew we were on the right road, in the correct area. We had approximate directions from the owners to their home, knowing the house was very close and on the main road. We went to the owners property a mile or so 'down the road' at the arranged time. We were taken by the lady owner to the house we were staying in and very briefly told where all the rooms were...and the lady was gone. I don't mean she vanished, she just left abruptly. Though we didn't think much of it at the time, we did later agree it was a bit 'odd'. The cottage was clean but rather old fashioned. We had a look around and decided on the twin bedded room to dump our cases of clothes. Having eaten we set off for the first fishing session. It was late September and I guess we returned to the house around 10pm. We sat in the lounge eating supper while watching (I think) the news (or a movie) on TV. We sat on the couch with our backs to the stairs wall, at each end of the couch was a door. The one on my friends side led to the kitchen, the bathroom and outside. The door on my side led to the bottom of the stairs, the front door, then through to the dining room, a door here led through to the kitchen. The door on my friends side (leading to the kitchen and then outside) clicked open by itself and opened fully. I think we both expected someone to come into the room. My friend leaned over and pushed the door closed. (I really can't recall if it opened again later though something tells me it did). Then the bumping started on the stairs. It sounded rather like someone had dropped a ball down the stairs...hitting some steps and missing others in an irregular pattern. I cannot remember now how long this bumping continued for, some time I think, as in hours rather than minutes. At the time we thought perhaps an animal was in the house somewhere. We had opened the window in the twin bedded room a little as it was a bit stuffy in there (before we went off fishing). We decided we'd wait for daylight to go upstairs and investigate! but got no sleep that first (Saturday) night, sitting up on the couch all night, listening. When daylight came we went fishing, returning about mid day. On returning we checked around the house and found nothing out of place. We closed the window we had opened in the bedroom, then ate and went off fishing again, returning again around 10 pm or so. We got supper and lit the fire in the lounge as the nights were getting colder. We had placed a suitcase by each of the lounge doors so they couldn't open again without moving a case. The bumping started around 11pm and sounded the same as the previous night. (The memory plays tricks but I believe it went on for some hours). We hadn't been up the stairs again and there was no central heating to make pipes rattle etc. I slept for an hour while my friend stayed awake. (I'd done all the driving and needed desperately to get some sleep). After an hour my friend woke me and we went into the kitchen together to make tea. He told me that while I was asleep he got the impression someone walked through the lounge with a basket of lavender. He said it was a strong, heavy smell though he saw nothing and apparently, also while I slept he was putting logs on the fire when he felt a 'pushing' from behind . I stayed awake while he got an hours sleep. Well, that was the plan but I fell asleep too and was rudely awoken by him swearing at me for dozing off! We stayed awake all night after this and went fishing when the sun was up (It was now Monday morning). Returning to the house in daylight, the place was fine. My friend went first into the bathroom to clean up while I made tea and then strolled around the garden taking a few pictures (it was 35mm film in those days, not digital!). There were some nice views across the Kings Sedgemoor area. I pointed the camera towards the rear of the house and thought I saw my friend in an upstairs window. I went into the house and called to him up the stairs...he answered from the bathroom which was adjoined to the kitchen. He came out when I called him and he was still dripping wet. He assured me he wouldn't have gone up the stairs for anything. (I believe him and neither would I have!). (Years later he confided that one afternoon he too had been walking around taking pictures and he thought he saw 'someone' in the same bedroom window...it wasn't me!) It was my turn for the bathroom while he prepared a meal, we ate and lounged around for a while then went fishing. As usual we returned around 10 pm. Also as usual we sat in the lounge eating supper when the bumping started again. My memory says it was louder and more persistent this night. We were both getting really tired by now and rather irritable. By 1am we'd had enough and decided it was time to face whatever was causing this bumping on the stairs. I had my fishing knife on my belt so I pulled it and grabbed a torch, he got the long heavy poker from the fireplace. (yes we still thought the noise was natural, not even really thinking paranormal). I opened the door to the stairs and reached around, fumbling for the light switch, the bumping stopped. I led the way and headed up the stairs, it was lit but only by very dim bulbs. We checked the bedroom we had intended using and all was ok. We moved onto the little single room (the one I thought I'd seen my friend in in the afternoon)...nothing. Closing the door we moved to the big old fashioned main bedroom. While my friend stood on the top of the stairs I edged into the room...once I'd flicked the dim light on, my friend followed me into the doorway. I looked under the big old bed and then walked around the foot of the bed toward the big old wardrobe. With my torch in one hand and knife in the other I reached out for the door handles. FLASH....BANG....DARKNESS AND BUMP BUMP BUMP ON THE STAIRS. I was around the bed and down the stairs in what seemed like one second. I don't recall either of us saying anything. We walked side by side out of that place, across the yard to the car and drove away. I can't recall now if we even bothered locking the back door. We spent the night in a layby about a mile away and slept peacefully and returned to the house at daybreak, Tuesday morning. As I said, by daylight the place wasn't so 'creepy'. We went upstairs to the main room. A quick look showed us what had gone down. The wiring to the light over the bed was old, it was the type which was covered in a woven fabric! The light socket had shorted out, the socket blew off, smashing the bulb on the bed. That was the flash, bang and darkness covered. (This caused all the upstairs lights to go out ((it's a ring main)). The bumping on the stairs was my friend legging it downstairs. Good thing he did too because, had he stayed on the landing in almost total darkness, he would have been faced with the vision of a wild eyed lunatic with a knife and a flashing light coming at him through the darkness...and he might have hit me with that damned poker! The rest of the week we slept at nights in that layby, we departed at the weekend, telling the owners about the light but we didn't mention the rest of it. Before we left we collected a load of conkers (off the chestnut trees in the garden) for my friend's younger brother. (Look up 'conkers' online for a definition of the game). He put the conkers below his laundry in a shopping bag. Saturday night / Sunday morning back at his home, my friend sat with a cup of tea by the fireplace...sorting his clothes to be washed the next day. The silver candlestick on the mantle fell off and into the top of the bag containing the conkers. Later that night / early hours of Sunday, while settling the coal fire for the night my friend felt like someone was pushing him from behind...but everyone was in bed asleep. (This was the second time this sort of thing happened to him). It would be 1985 when my friend and I and his wife and baby took another holiday in Somerset, this time the cottage we hired was much friendlier. We were at Burnham on Sea and on the Wednesday we decided to take a ride to the Cheddar Gorge, a few miles away. On the way back they were all dozing while I drove. After a while I got the feeling I knew this area and recognised a few landmarks. I said to my friend "do you know where we are?"...... He rolled up his sleeve, showing me the vertical hairs on his arm..."Yeah I know where we are"!!.... as we drove past the cottage from years before. Thank you to the anonymous contributor for this very interesting story. Image - Somerset Paranormal/ PJW Artworks

Witham Friary, Somerset – Farmhouse Incident Late 19th Century A curious and unsettling presence is said to have taken hold in the cheese room of a farmhouse near Witham Friary. Chairs were hurled across the space, ornaments trembled and clattered without cause, and the disturbances grew so intense that the room was eventually abandoned altogether. Local lore attributes the activity to the restless spirit of a servant girl who tragically took her own life in that very room. Has anyone ever heard of this before in the area> or knpw of any other haintings in Witham Friary. Source: Paranormal Database Images - Somerset Paranormal & Know your place maps 1888

Pulteney Bridge- Bath History - Pulteney Bridge spans the River Avon in the historic city of Bath. Completed in 1774, it was designed to link the city with the Pulteney family estate, which they intended to develop. The bridge was conceived by renowned architect Robert Adam in the Palladian style and is particularly remarkable for having shops that line both sides across its full span—a rare feature among bridges worldwide. It is now recognized as a Grade I listed building. Within two decades of its completion, the bridge underwent modifications that expanded the shopfronts and altered the original façades. In the 1800's businesses included a saddlers, milk shop, fishing tackle maker, boot & shoemaker, jeweller, dress & pelisse maker, tea dealer, milliner, umbrella ¶asol maker, hairdresser, watch maker, confectioner and tobacconist amongst many more. By the late 18th century, flood damage necessitated reconstruction, which largely preserved the original design. Throughout the 19th century, further changes included cantilevered shop extensions on the north side. In the 20th century, restoration efforts sought to conserve the structure and partially return it to Adam’s original vision, enhancing its status as a beloved tourist attraction. Today, the bridge measures 45 metres (148 feet) in length and 18 metres (58 feet) in width. Though proposals have been made to pedestrianize it, the bridge remains in use by buses and taxis. Just steps from the city centre—a UNESCO World Heritage Site celebrated for its Georgian architecture—Pulteney Bridge and the weir below it remain among Bath’s most iconic and photographed landmarks. Haunted? There are no documented reports of any hauntings here, but that doesn't mean to say there may not be something there, all be it residual, a remnant of the past from the hustle and bustle of this busy bridge and shopping area. Just a stones throw from the medieval East and North Gate and overlooking the area said to have a ducking stool in medieval times, the narrow stairs down onto the jetty area take on a distinct chill at night if you are walking there alone. Has anyone ever experienced anything there at all? maybe you worked in a shop that had unexplained activity? We would love to hear.. You can also email any stories to us if you wish to be anonymous- somersetparanormal@yahoo.com  Sources - Pulteney Bridge 1829 Credit- Shepard/ Allen/Jones Source- Rare Old Prints Bath in Time 1967 & 1949 Maps 1610 & 1888

South Wraxall Manor is a private residence with a rich history. At South Wraxall, about 3 miles North of Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire. Built by the Long family in the 15th century, it dates back to 1585. The manor is famously linked to Sir Walter Raleigh, who was a friend of the Long family, who is said to have smoked the first-ever pipe of tobacco in an English house here. People have reported smelling the tobacco at different times. Another well-known legend associated with the manor is that of the White Hand. Lady Catherine, the second wife of Sir Walter Long, sought to secure her son Walter’s inheritance. However, Sir Walter already had an older son, John, from his first marriage. Lady Catherine and her brother allegedly conspired to have John disinherited, ensuring the younger Walter would be named heir. As the clerk prepared the new will, a ghostly white hand appeared over the parchment, preventing him from completing the document. The apparition is believed to have been the spirit of John’s mother, protecting her son's rightful claim. The hand appeared three times, unnerving the clerk so much that he refused to proceed. Ultimately, a compromise must have been reached—John inherited Wraxall, while Walter was granted Draycott. History - The first known member of the Long family to own land in South Wraxall was Robert Long, a lawyer who sat in Parliament for several sessions between 1414 and 1442, mostly for the Wiltshire constituency. He built South Wraxall Manor soon after buying the estate; he was living there in 1429 and a few years later exchanged lands in Wraxall with the Abbess of Shaftesbury. He died in 1447. His great-great grandson Sir Robert Long altered the doorway to the Long chapel in 1566, having his initials and badges carved into the stone above it. Over the generations, the Long family acquired more and more land, until eventually they owned all the property within South Wraxall that had once belonged to Monkton Farleigh Priory. During the Second World War, the manor housed evacuees from Kent, and was used as a convalescent home for children. The last member of the Long family to live at the manor was Sara, the only daughter of the 2nd Viscount Long, and wife of Conservative MP, Charles Morrison. The house was sold in 1966, together with 830 acres (340 ha), after five hundred years of family ownership. Now owned by John Taylor of 80's band Duran Duran. Source - Paranormal Wiltshire - Selena Wright & Wikipedia Photo - George Love Dafnis c1920's & 1935- Bath in Time Artwork - PJW Artworks

Snowdrops and the Supernatural: A Bloom Steeped in Folklore and Fear A crisp chill lingers in the air as I walk through the quiet churchyard, the ground firm with frost beneath my feet. Among the weathered gravestones, snowdrops emerge, their delicate white petals standing in contrast to the dark, damp earth. They weave through the cracks of ancient stone, small yet resilient, a sign that winter is beginning to loosen its grip. The stillness of the graveyard, combined with the gentle presence of these early blooms, creates a peaceful atmosphere. In the cold, surrounded by history and nature, there is a quiet sense of reflection—life continuing in the midst of remembrance. Snowdrops were likely introduced to the UK by Norman monks, with the first recorded cultivation in England dating back to the 16th century. In 1597, they were mentioned in Gerard’s Great Herbal , where they were referred to as "Timely Flowers Bulbous Violets." Traditionally, snowdrops were planted in churchyards for Candlemas Day (February 2) and cultivated in abbeys for their medicinal properties. Its Latin name is Galanthus nivalis. Galanthus means milk white flowers and the nivalis element translates as snowy according to the great botanist, Linnaeus in 1753. The Victorians planted snowdrops extensively in graveyards, churchyards, and cemeteries, leading to their association with death and earning them the nickname Death’s Flower. During the 19th and early 20th centuries, a dark superstition surrounded these delicate blooms. It was believed that finding a snowdrop inside the home was a bad omen, signifying impending doom. Bringing the flower indoors from outside was thought to bring misfortune, with many fearing it foretold an imminent death in the household. They were described by Margaret Baker in the 1903 ‘Encyclopedia of Superstitions, Folklore and the Occult of the World’ as: ‘So much like a corpse in a shroud that in some counties, the people will not have it in the house, lest they bring in death.‘ The most unlucky snowdrop was that with a single bloom on its stem. Other folk traditions were described in a 1913 folklore handbook which claims that if a snowdrop was brought indoors it will make the cows milk watery and affect the colour of the butter. Even as late as 1969 in ‘The Folklore of Plants’ it was stated that having a snowdrop indoors could affect the number of eggs that a sitting chicken might hatch. Some other additional Symbolisms of Snowdrops Hope – Snowdrops represent hope for brighter days and new opportunities ahead. Rebirth – They symbolize resilience, overcoming challenges, and embracing life's transformations. Purity – Their delicate white petals signify innocence, spirituality, and compassion. New Beginnings – As one of the first flowers to bloom in early spring, snowdrops herald fresh starts and renewal. Religious Associations Christianity – Snowdrops are linked to the Candlemas festival, marking the presentation of Jesus at the temple. Paganism – They are associated with Imbolc, a festival celebrating the transition from winter to spring. So next time you find yourself in a churchyard on a cold February day, take a moment to notice the delicate white blooms peeking through the frost—beautiful yet solemn, a quiet reminder of life, death, and the whispers of those who came before. A s you stand among the stones of the past, smile—because even in the stillness, even in the cold, life always finds a way to return. P. Wallace Photos - © Somerset Photography at Holcombe Old Church - February 14th 2025