The Hay Barn

The old barn stood silhouetted against a steel grey sky; rain battering on its red corrugated roof. It was the biggest structure on the farm; built tall to accommodate towering stacks of hay which is why I always knew it as the hay barn.

I had not set foot inside that old barn since I was a teenager more than 25 years ago. Pulling my hood up I ventured outside my Granny’s house and crossed the yard to the big gate. It swung open creakily and I was reminded how as children we loved to stand on the rungs of this gate and push each other back and forth.

I crossed a gravelly ground which opened into a small courtyard, bordered on one side by some low roofed buildings; the milking shed, a hen shed and a tool shed. An old hen eyed me as I stood still in front of the barn. In the middle of the barn I could see a rusting grey tractor with a trailer lying on its side next to it. A few bales of hay were scattered here and there but mainly the barn was now being used to store turf. There was a great hill of it next to the wall, far enough back from the entrance to avoid the rain.

Stepping into the barn I took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of fresh rain, turf and hay. The rain was loud on the metal roof. I looked up at the rafters. A wood pigeon was taking shelter overhead. Its coos were gentle and deep. There was a stillness, a calm in here. I found a bale to sit on, ran my fingers over the edge of it until I found a single piece of straw that could be extracted. It glided out, silky and gold and I put the end of it into my mouth. I closed my eyes and let my memories flood back to me.

When I was a child I could climb on these bales until I reached the roof of the barn. Sometimes it was a quiet place to take my book and read. A place of solitude, of peace, almost like a church. Other times it was our playground where we would clamber to the top and jump down onto lower bales. The old barn was a great place to play a good game of hide and seek. As we got older someone would throw a rope around the rafters and we would swing over the hay and let go whooping and cheering.

We were warned of the dangers of going into the barn. It was not safe. We could break a neck or a bale could come crashing down on top of us and smother us. None of this deterred us. The old barn was a constant draw. As I thought of it, I longed for the innocence of it. The good and wholesome fun of it. The endless summer days of play and adventure. The days that have long passed but are written into the heart.

I folded the long piece of straw over and over and placed it in my pocket. Then I took a small piece of turf off the mound next to the wall and put that into my pocket also. I passed my hand over the smooth tractor seat and then I left. Standing in the rain I looked towards my Granny’s house where everyone was gathered to say their goodbyes. This was her old barn, her milking shed, her turf, her fields that she shared so graciously with us. I am so grateful to her for that.