A Beautiful Ruin.

One of the landmarks that I pass on my varied walks around the village is an old deserted farm. It is easy to pass by without noticing, as the entrance is, or should I say, was, a dilapidated timber five bar gate, 

This leads into an overgrown but spacious courtyard, where outbuildings enclose three sides, and an ancient farmhouse stands on the cliffs, proudly overlooking the sea.

Over a quarter of a century ago, when first I moved into the village, I would sometimes open the gate, pass through the courtyard, and going beside the house would walk down onto the South West Coast Path.

A year or two after my arrival, the deserted house and land were put up for auction. 

It never made the reserve, as far as I know, and I was told it went for a knockdown price. 

I had hopes of buying it, together with some friends, but I guess their interest waned when they saw the state of the buildings and the inaccessibility of the village. 

My plan of having a spacious home, with room to entertain friends, and outbuildings that could be rented out to craftsmen and women (who I so admired on my travels to sell my books at the County Shows) was a pipe-dream, that, as so often, swirled down the plughole of unfulfilled ventures

A few years ago, a notice appeared on the gate, announcing that it was private. 

Funny how the single word can change one's attitude. I avoided going through the shortcut to the cliff path after that.

Perhaps, in an alternative universe, instead of the village emptying of residents, there are no speculators, with their vanity project holiday homes of concrete and plate glass, erupting like toadstools.

Maybe that is where craftsmanship in wrought iron, granite, timber, and slate survives, while easy-to-clean stainless steel and plastic are unknown. 

Who knows? 

One can always dream.