An empty house
An empty house
Some ten years ago I took a few visitors for a walk over a ridge of hills around two miles from where we are living. The walk covered an area of bog, past a couple of disused flag stone quarries ending at a lake that not only has the remains of a crannog but also provides a large part of the area with drinking water while being a favourite spot for fly-fishers and a great place to dump dead cars as well.
Looking across the bog and the valley towards the Cliffs of Moher we could see a thatched house sitting on it’s own on the hillside, overlooking the bog. Parked next to it was a light blue Volkswagen Beetle.
I wondered who would be living there, on the back of the mountain, without electricity or water.
It was years later we were on a summer’s day cross country walk that we stumbled upon the same house. It had been abandoned, a friend told us the man in it had been offered a council house in town and he just upped, left everything, including the dysfunctional Beetle, and walked into town where he lived for a few years and died.
The house at the time was in a poor state, a section of the roof had fallen in, exposing half of the kitchen but everything was still there, a settlebed was sitting against the wall, the table was there with a pair of shoes sitting under it as if the person living there had just left the room.
There was an air of sadness and abandonment, as there would be around empty houses like that. At the time I shot a bunch of Black and White photos and continued on my walk.
Today was a nice day and with an hour to spare we decided t o drive the backroad, park the car and hop over the hill. I had some more pictures in mind, big square B&W ones but I also took the digital shooter.
Coming over the hill it was immediately clear the rest of the thatch had now fallen in:
In the kitchen the weight of the roof had squashed the table, chairs and covered up the settle bed
The wardrobe was still there, it’s paint peeling in the weather
And inside a jacket still hanging
The windows on the front of the house, as usual, showed the passing fashions in colour
The lean-to shed with flagstone roof had lost a corner and was about to collapse
But the Beetle was still there
After a while we walked back over the access road looking towards Liscannor Bay and The Cliffs of Moher, the wind was east and the air was hazy
About a mile from the house, where we had left the car parked outside the gate is the well that provided the house with drinking water, still as clean as ever
Looking across the bog and the valley towards the Cliffs of Moher we could see a thatched house sitting on it’s own on the hillside, overlooking the bog. Parked next to it was a light blue Volkswagen Beetle.
I wondered who would be living there, on the back of the mountain, without electricity or water.
It was years later we were on a summer’s day cross country walk that we stumbled upon the same house. It had been abandoned, a friend told us the man in it had been offered a council house in town and he just upped, left everything, including the dysfunctional Beetle, and walked into town where he lived for a few years and died.
The house at the time was in a poor state, a section of the roof had fallen in, exposing half of the kitchen but everything was still there, a settlebed was sitting against the wall, the table was there with a pair of shoes sitting under it as if the person living there had just left the room.
There was an air of sadness and abandonment, as there would be around empty houses like that. At the time I shot a bunch of Black and White photos and continued on my walk.
Today was a nice day and with an hour to spare we decided t o drive the backroad, park the car and hop over the hill. I had some more pictures in mind, big square B&W ones but I also took the digital shooter.
Coming over the hill it was immediately clear the rest of the thatch had now fallen in:
In the kitchen the weight of the roof had squashed the table, chairs and covered up the settle bed
The wardrobe was still there, it’s paint peeling in the weather
And inside a jacket still hanging
The windows on the front of the house, as usual, showed the passing fashions in colour
The lean-to shed with flagstone roof had lost a corner and was about to collapse
But the Beetle was still there
After a while we walked back over the access road looking towards Liscannor Bay and The Cliffs of Moher, the wind was east and the air was hazy
About a mile from the house, where we had left the car parked outside the gate is the well that provided the house with drinking water, still as clean as ever
- Innocent Bystander
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- Cynth
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Oh dear. These are beautiful photos. Although not a believer, pictures like these often cause me to seek consolation from Ein deutsches Requiem by Johannes Brahms.
Psalm 39:4–7 Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is: that I may know how frail I am.
Behold, thou hast made my days as an handbreadth; and mine age is as nothing before thee.
Surely every man walks in a vain show: surely they are disquieted in vain: he heaps up riches, and knows not who shall gather them.
And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.
Wisdom of Solomon 3:1 The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God and there shall no torment touch them.
Diligentia maximum etiam mediocris ingeni subsidium. ~ Diligence is a very great help even to a mediocre intelligence.----Seneca
- anniemcu
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An empty house
Sadness in the observation of a life left.
Paint peeling like the memories of youth.
Thatch fallen to blanket the orphaned furniture.
Shoes left neatly behind to wait patiently for feet
that would never again take them down the familiar paths.
A jacket, no longer warming shrugging shoulders
waiting in hopes of further usefulness.
Windows weeping for eyes to see.
Sweet water still eager to quench an absent thirst.
Ancient wheels, giving in to the lonliness
disolve in their sorrow at abandonment.
Nature wrapping herself around them all,
as if to say, "I still love you.
Come home."
Sadness in the observation of a life left.
Paint peeling like the memories of youth.
Thatch fallen to blanket the orphaned furniture.
Shoes left neatly behind to wait patiently for feet
that would never again take them down the familiar paths.
A jacket, no longer warming shrugging shoulders
waiting in hopes of further usefulness.
Windows weeping for eyes to see.
Sweet water still eager to quench an absent thirst.
Ancient wheels, giving in to the lonliness
disolve in their sorrow at abandonment.
Nature wrapping herself around them all,
as if to say, "I still love you.
Come home."
anniemcu
---
"You are what you do, not what you claim to believe." -Gene A. Statler
---
"Olé to you, none-the-less!" - Elizabeth Gilbert
---
http://www.sassafrassgrove.com
---
"You are what you do, not what you claim to believe." -Gene A. Statler
---
"Olé to you, none-the-less!" - Elizabeth Gilbert
---
http://www.sassafrassgrove.com
Thanks all, they're really point and shoot pics. There's a sadness in places like that, the leftovers of a life abandoned, maybe more important: the last remnants of a way of life that's virtually gone from tiger infested Ireland. No false romantic images there, people in these houses lived a tough existence in lonely cold and damp places and I don't blame anybody for moving out of the old houses.
There are a few old houses left where life hasn't changed a lot, that seem to have been untouched by time. Below is a shot of one of these one I pass a few times each week. The windbreak of trees has become a dark fence around a lot of these houses. Most of the old houses are wonderfully sited, this particular one sits in the one spot in the whole valley that has an uninterrupted view between two hills to Mount Callan, the highest point in Clare. A few years ago the shed outside the house was filled with hopper turf, only broken up in four foot lengths (which saves a lot of time loading it on the bog and bringing it in), these day the fire goes on off-cuts from the builders, plywood mostly. You can only hope the chimney works well.
Kitty Hayes tells me the house used to run a little shop, as a young girl she was sent out for the messages, a walk of two miles.
Photographer Dorothea Lange spent some time shooting in and around the townland of this last house during the 1950s. Her images can be found in the book 'Dorothea Lange's Ireland' and a wonderful film was made re-tracing the people and places in her photographs, fifty years on: 'Photos to send' , catch it if you can.
There are a few old houses left where life hasn't changed a lot, that seem to have been untouched by time. Below is a shot of one of these one I pass a few times each week. The windbreak of trees has become a dark fence around a lot of these houses. Most of the old houses are wonderfully sited, this particular one sits in the one spot in the whole valley that has an uninterrupted view between two hills to Mount Callan, the highest point in Clare. A few years ago the shed outside the house was filled with hopper turf, only broken up in four foot lengths (which saves a lot of time loading it on the bog and bringing it in), these day the fire goes on off-cuts from the builders, plywood mostly. You can only hope the chimney works well.
Kitty Hayes tells me the house used to run a little shop, as a young girl she was sent out for the messages, a walk of two miles.
Photographer Dorothea Lange spent some time shooting in and around the townland of this last house during the 1950s. Her images can be found in the book 'Dorothea Lange's Ireland' and a wonderful film was made re-tracing the people and places in her photographs, fifty years on: 'Photos to send' , catch it if you can.
Last edited by Cayden on Tue Mar 27, 2007 11:50 am, edited 1 time in total.