The Brickyard

My parents live in a bungalow on some land known locally as the brickyard. Down a dirt road in a small ex-mining village, the bungalow sits on the foundations of the cottage where my Dad was born. Surrounding it are all the bricks from the cottage, the outside toilet is still there, the old kitchen sink is turned into something between a plant pot and a shrine, and bottles and jars plucked from the ground are washed and kept. Every part of that cottage is woven into the fabric of the bungalow.

A selection of little toys found on the road are arranged into a little scene on a piano, a cast iron dog is given a bed to sit on and his old pencil cases are lined up carefully on a matching coloured sideboard. In the loft are three Henry Hoovers; the best hoover my Dad has ever known, and if the current one breaks, he’s covered.

Everything has a story and a history, nothing is for show or for ornament. Clothes are practical and food is for sustenance. Consumerism never landed here. Despite being a fan of avant garde jazz, European cinema and poetry from around the world, my Dad has no desire to leave the brickyard. Never mind travelling to New York to see the latest and greatest new music, even a trip to Bridlington longer than a couple of days is pushing it. This little plot of land is home and has everything he needs and desires.