Photographs of Impossible Places

I have as my background on my laptop, a photograph I took just before Christmas. The photograph is of a Midlands countryside - I would like to say it is Worcestershire, but could well be Staffordshire. I can't remember whether it was on the trip Dad and me took to Shrewsbury or Kidderminster.
The photograph is taken from the passenger seat of the car, and shows a twilight landscape. A late twilight landscape - almost night. A curving road is lined by spiky dark silhouette-trees. The sky is a cloudy maelstrom of blues and greys and violets, a Worcestershire sky, even though it might be Staffordshire.
It looks wet and cold and oddly remote, the kind of landscape that could only exist in deep December. If one were to return in summer, it would be a very different landscape. December landscapes are most often seen through windows - of cars and trains and the unfamiliar windows of the houses of visited relatives - I suppose it is too cold and wet to spend much time in them skin to skin. Viewed thus - and at an even greater remove through the further window of the laptop screen, the landscapes achieve a kind of deep and dreamy resonance, a country as unreal as that found outside of a plane window above the cloud-line.
I could lose myself in that photograph, wonder about those dark night-fields that line the road and what might - or might not - be found there. Despite the fact I have a photograph of it, it would be impossible to find that spot again, even on a wet, remote deep December day. In this sense, the landscape is a truly lost country, a country that I not only visited, but also photographed.
I might delete the photograph though, and then there would be no proof that that landscape ever existed only as anything other than a product of imagination or half-remembered dream, or even a lie, and as I will not include that photograph here there will be no way of knowing.
Unless someone looks at my laptop of course.