Rain encroaches along the valley. The stones from which the barn has been built turn darker as the clouds lower and the fine mist heavies itself with ever increasing raindrops. An hour ago, the steep hillsides of woodland and pasture seemed to be almost painfully quiet to those unused to rural remoteness. Now the rain drums subtly on tree, roof and road. The warmth of a sunny spring evening still seems a distant hope even at the end of March.
The only indication that this building might hold many memories is a pre-restoration photograph on the wall and the name: The Granary. The walls and beams, now home to central heating, a dishwasher, microwave and flat screen tv have become a holiday home. Tasteful to the modern eye but it has lost most of its agricultural identity. I must take a closer look tomorrow and see what secrets might remain to a more dedicated observer. Just what is original I wonder?
How easy it is for the memories of this place to be forgotten. Who was the farmer or farmers that have lived here, trying to make a living on these steep rock strewn hillsides? Who were their families, their way of life, customs and culture. Time erodes such things as it draws us continually to the future and memories are rarely held in the place of their formation.
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