I have been meaning to "tell the story" of this wonderful collection of farm buildings for some time. Since I first encountered them, early on the morning of the last fine day of autumn, before the morning haze had lifted.
The day I stopped, there were no signs of life. No vehicles. No farm equipment. No livestock. Not even any rubbish. Just a grouping of farm buildings with a once fine house. Trees, a grassy lane. Empty, like perfect movie set for a turn of the last century farm drama.
Did the family have sons who were expected to take over the farm, in the old way? Did this happen for a generation, maybe? There are two front doors; was this a double house shared by parents, a son and his family? But then did grandsons opt for city work and city lives, as in our own family's story? Or were there daughters only, who joined other red-brick farmhouse families along the road?
The old well pump still stands out front - someone proud of the old ways, wanting to keep a reminiscence? But there's a new concrete verandah and steps, likely replacing a failing wooden one contemporary with the posts and gingerbread. There was a time when concrete was the new best thing - but also a practical, low-cost alternative. Happened on our farm, when the aging wrap-around wooden verandahs became unsightly, and there were other places for the scant income.
The lovely gable designs haven't "seen a coat of paint in a while" as dad would have said, and spoolwork is missing. No time and money to keep up with these unessential bits of the farm. Chimneys look sound.
This farm is waiting.