Des. Res.

This wee, abandoned house is right opposite mine, and many, many, tourists stop in the layby outside the house to take this photo. Dimairt the dog tries to see them off, but they are quite undeterred.
The sheep who now use it for shelter are my neighbours, and I just missed a shot of the wee lamb licking its mum's ears. The look on its face tells me that I intruded on an intimate moment. Or maybe it has something to do with my dressing gown and slippers which has him puzzled. Also, every Spring, for some unknown reason, frog spawn appears on the window ledges, not having a hope of developing, as the watery puddles dry out in the sun. The tadpoles are very brief visiting neighbours, therefore.
This wee house is a constant part of my day; it's the last thing I see on my way to work, and the first thing I see before turning into my own garden.
My own house is no picture postcard, although it is still a stone-built cottage (needs a lot of cosmetic surgery to make it look picturesque). What sold the house for me, though, was the view from it, including the wee house. When I take a photo of a great sunset, I always have to have this house in it, and at this time of year the sunset and the house can easily be in the same shot.
Although the croft on which it sits is no longer lived on, or worked (most crofts are now used for grazing sheep & cows), so far there are no signs that the absentee crofter is to sell it. Great news for me, as I have a horrible feeling that were someone to buy the croft, the first thing to go would be the house, to be replaced by a modern bungalow. It has happened everywhere round here.
When I first came here in '92, the house had a good, solid door, and from time to time, someone would appear to do the odd roof repair, patching up the corrugated iron. As the years passed, however, even this basic work was stopped.
My nephew, Graham, always made the point of repairing the door of this old place, so that at least it kept the sheep out. Graham is all grown up now, and the door is no longer on its hinges. You can imagine the state of the inside.
However, I still remember there being an old iron bed, an old kettle, and an old black range in the fireplace. The most poignant thing was an old copy of "People's Friend" sitting on the shoogly old table by the window.
It looked as if the owner had just popped out for a wee while.
I always wonder about that tiny window in the gable end, and who would gaze out of it. It may seem a shame to some that I can't wave to any human neighbours, but it is also a blessing.
I hope that this blip is not the kiss of death for my wee house........