Stone and Land

Mud starts clinging to my worn-out leather hiking boots as I trudge over softer ground towards the wild brambles swarming the outside of the barn. I note the difference between this soft earth and the dry solid clay along the lane leading here. I had known this barn in my youth and today was not a reunion I anticipated with fondness. A bramble bites into my arm drawing blood, adding to my already dark mood. This building wasn’t always a barn, though it had been used as such for most of its life and everyone in these parts called it the old barn. It started out life as a tenanted cottage soon abandoned when its inhabitants emigrated to the promised land of America. The history of this dilapidated stone-built barn is an important aspect as to why I am here and reacquainting myself with the building that defined my life four decades ago.

I continue my battle with the brambles and the 4-foot-high nettles as I embark upon my meticulous measuring and observation. The change in stonework near the centre of the building is subtle. The entire structure is built from locally quarried stone, however there is a gentle colour change where some stonework has been exposed for longer periods – that is how I know from sight where the original ends and the extension begins, my touch agrees with my eyes identifying some exposed more recently. Suddenly I hear the gentle trickle of the beck babbling along the edge of the property and recall there used to be an uncovered well near the Southwest corner. I watch where I place my feet as I safely negotiate the western side and lean against the nearby boundary dry-stone wall.

The field beyond was a wheat field when I was a child. I used to walk along its edge and trace my hands over the sticky ripe ears, the sensation of being tickled irresistible. At this time of year, the ears would be turning golden. Now the field is a meadow the result of a handsome grant paid to the farmer. Still, it was not enough for the farmer or his daughter who has now taken over the farm. So here I am surveying the old barn and its plot to eventually become a showcase of sustainable living. As I take in the remote aspect of the plot, I muse that placing infrastructure here will cause more disruption than many anticipate, especially as this barn is scheduled to appear on one of those ‘Home Improvement’ type TV shows. Thus, adding coin to the coffers for the farm and signalling another chapter in the barn’s long biography.

Making myself comfortable against the wall, with a practiced lean, I begin to do a lose basic sketch of the property. Not really caring about spelling or accuracy, it is merely a means to aid my professional memory and break up the monotony of the cold hard facts such as measurements and locating boundary markers. Today I am struggling against the oppressive morose sensation which lingers both inside and around me. A cold fact, though not scientifically quantifiable, is that land remembers evil deeds and exudes their stench until the fracture is healed.

As I finish the square for the window, an unusual feature in traditional barns, I contemplate what awaits inside. I already know that I will find a hearth on the north wall. At this point I can only imagine how ramshackle the chimney will be. The top floor will only show itself as slots from the old floor beams. I notice the air cooling down on my skin, a gust of wind curls at the edges of my paper and small spots of water appear on my drawing. The time I had dreaded since the notification of the assignment was upon me. I must go inside.

I walk around the south-eastern gable end leaving the sound of the beck behind me and head north towards the entrance. The door is two planks of rot perforated wood held together by two large streaky black and orange hinges. I reach up to touch the wet, cold, smooth stone lintel of the original doorway. The current opening is wider than the original, a major reason for the 1930’s rebuild increasing both capacity and practical use. A further reminder of the refit lay strewn around the threshold in the form of large worn stones intermittently protruding from the soft earth.

Tentatively I look around before entering the old barn, the rain is persistent now and the sky a uniform slate grey. That’s when I catch sight of him. He is at the entrance to the field, resting on the old gate post. He startles me as I had not heard nor seen his approach. His heart shaped face turns towards me, brown and white coat almost perfect camouflage against his surroundings. It his eyes that make me catch my breath. The intensely dark circles register my every move, I shudder involuntarily. Ever since that fateful day I have carried with me the sensation of being watched with a mixture of distain, disappointment, and shame. Forcing my eyes away from his I step through the entrance and over the threshold. The smell of the barn overwhelms me as all my senses send cortisol crashing through my veins, had I not instantly shut down and frozen I would have run away screaming, my demons laughing as they chased me away.

When I freeze my vision blurs. It’s akin to tunnel vision with fuzziness at the end of the tunnel. Standing inside the threshold I patiently wait for my vision to return and open my other senses allowing them to see without my eyes. I can smell the oil and rusting metal of the farm machinery to my right. I notice the floor has more spring in it than I anticipated. Somewhere my distant rational self believes this is probably the result of the onslaught of time and rain quickening the rot of the collapsed upper floor. My feet sink into the spongy ground and as if for added emphasis, I both hear and feel liquid ooze out from under my boots. I hear the rain on the roof, stone and inside where the structure is open. Despite the rain I can feel the stifling heat of that summer’s day on my currently cold sweat covered skin, I smell the dry warm hay and wood that surrounded me then. Their aromas grip me as if a fly caught in a spider’s web. Slowly my vision returns, and I drink in the old chimney to my right. The sight of a chimney has always lifted my spirits today is no exception, even here in this place of true nightmares. It is barely recognisable as a chimney now with much of the structure strewn on the ground obscuring the hearth stone and encasing old farm machinery.

The gloom of the outside invades the interior through the glassless window and the rain now cascades through the collapsed roof, creating a small pool on the floor. Instinctively I move to my left and continue my survey under what remains of the roof. I tread carefully only too aware of the unseen dangers old buildings exposed to the elements can produce. There is also trepidation on another level as I am desperate to avoid uncovering anything from that day. Pressing onward I berate myself for falling fowl to tricks of my mind. After all, both parties had left the building and walked away that day – one left broken and unable to trust, the other ushered to another town as a secret fugitive.

I stub my toe on some fallen stone and return to the here and now, keenly noticing the room is illuminated by dark shadows, the urge to vomit hits me from nowhere and becomes stronger with every footstep. I continue along the southern edge clambering over the rotting hay pile. Suddenly the pile gives way under my weight. I roll uncontrollably down the damp pile and towards the southwest corner where the hay pile recedes. Eventually I come to a stop and feel the spongy ground underneath me. As I grope around for some purchase my hand clasps something soft, and furry. I pull my hand away quickly believing it to be a dead rodent. Upon second glance I recognise it, a long lost and much-loved pocket-sized teddy bear. The fur was once golden and wiry, his ears a soft pink felt on the inside, and his nose threadbare due to being chewed. What surprises me the most is that his black bead eyes still shine bright, even in this darkness. My heart is almost bursting through my ribcage with excitement at being reunited with him, nothing else matters now. He is surprisingly well preserved and dry, all things considered. Relief washes over me as I gather him up again and give him a gentle squeeze.

A large shadow passes over the roof opening jolting me from my lost childhood. It is then I realise sunlight now floods the space I occupy. For the first time ever, my eyes can see the true desolate beauty of this old barn in the final throws of entropy. The rickety stonework begins to glow, the outline of the chimney appears sturdy, and the upper floor markers shed their ominous oppressive gaze. I place the small teddy bear in the front pocket of my backpack and attempt to retrace my steps outside, clambering over the fallen detritus. My clothes are wet from my fall, my boots and hands caked in mud. I glance toward the gatepost as I emerge from the barn; he is no longer there. I reach the gatepost and turn back to view the old barn one last time. After a few minutes of feeling the fresh air on my face and inhaling the post-rain petrichor all around me I nod my thanks and farewells, then turn to begin the long walk back along the overgrown and isolated path, to the access road beyond.

I smile - the old barn has returned to me that which was stolen. Again, I leave its presence a changed person, the eyes no longer have a hold on me.……..

………fear strikes me. How do I function without them?