We've been watching the old
barn, from the road: the field bullocks jostling inside it, snorting. Dog has
no idea that cattle aren't fond of her, so we hadn't climbed the stile before.
But now, the curves of sodden earth stand empty, so we cross the edge of the
fallow fields, forge the stream, heave up the bank, over the wooden steps, near
lose our boots in mud suction. A raw and sizeable badger build draws first
attention: all of the hedges are part of this gigantic set. We make sense of
all the tracks that lead this way from the minor set-city in the small woods.
We make our own
tracks to the old barn and fall in love with it. Mr holds his arms out. A
pond, over there: he
points: in the natural dip. Drainage would be important.
I ask if we can
stock it with trout. Room in the barn for a smokehouse.
Water tanks,
underground, store up irrigation.
The pond evolves
into a natural swimming pool.
South facing, Mr
stands, pointing where the sun rises, where it sinks, so we know how to string
the vines. Warm, in the barn, to ferment fruit.
Thermal mass rocket stove
heater, Mr says. He always
says that.
Ah, if dreams
were currency, we could afford it all.
Anyway, we smile
and walk with Dog back to our rented cottage, where we wonder how to get all
this washing dry, where we defrost hands on mugs of tea.
Comments