Whenever I am driving and I see a really dilapidated building, or ruin, the brakes of the car are almost slammed on, I cruise to find a safe place to stop, and set off to explore. It is living history facing into oblivion and I have a great desire to record it. The stories of people are told there; stories that will be lost as decay wins, or renovation destroys.
In the hamlet of Quinoalc’h in rural Finisterre, quite a substantial cottage is set back from the road, behind a well tended green. I ventured in. The beaten earth floor was evidently the only floor that had ever been there. The garden escapee vinca was attempting to make a home in the hard packed earth. Nothing remained downstairs to give any indication of who had lived in this property. The stairs led steeply to the traditional first floor. Some were missing. Some had rot that sank as my weight was gingerly placed on them. As my head rose above the floor level, my heart missed a beat. Partially against the chimney breast was a single iron bedstead, but on it was a bundle. It was formed as a dead body might be formed. The grime indicated just how long it had been there, untouched. Courage and common sense crawled back into my thinking.
My purpose was to record the scene. Before doing anything to in any way disrupt the scene, I stood carefully at the top of the stairs, braced myself, and took a series of images. Despite the roof’s collapse having created a room with a view, that source of light was to my right. The only other light was from gaps under the eaves. The ‘window’ had been over-hung with sacking. The lack of light was disconcerting. Because I wanted to be able to access as much detail as possible I selected the aperture of f11 that I knew to be where the Nikon 17-55mm would function at its optimum. An ISO of 200 would allow me to make the necessary adjustments with the low light levels when processing, without losing quality. The shutter speed of 2 seconds, hand held just required a lot of physical discipline. It was a scene that I was prepared, and able, to spend time shooting, to get the optimum quality possible.
Knowing that one of the shots would fulfill my wishes, I carefully, oh, so carefully approached over rotting boards. The bundle was purely that: a bundle. Long disused bedding, rolled up and abandoned. A crate of empty bottles of equal antiquity was at the head of the bed. The model for Van Gogh’s chair was by the foot of the bed, its back a perch for itinerant birds, its cane work gently rotting, forgetting the people whose weight it had once borne. On a bench rested a calendar for 1974 . Behind the bench was a large, ancient two man saw. My footsteps on the boards were interesting. I could almost feel them sink with the rot. The hole in the collapsed section of the roof allowed rain water and snow of harsh winters, free access, and had removed all protection from the rotten floor.
I left exhilarated at my find, but saddened by the story.
The opportunity to return came the following year. More of the steep steps would not permit themselves to bear my weight and so I clambered from one safe step to the next. The scene upstairs was unchanged, apart from a more extensive hole and more totally rotten floorboards and holes. The quality of light was poor. There was no point in taking further photographs; they would say nothing new, and they would not speak as eloquently as this one. I respectfully left.
The following year, the staircase was boarded over; this could be seen from the road. The next year, the entire cottage was boarded up.
No-one else can now see what I was able to see, or record it to share with others.