The Farm

I have a painting of my twice Great Grandpa’s farm. A beautiful and idyllic place- A cottage by the Irish Sea. A finger of rock stretches from the shore and boats sail serenely upon that Celtic azure. It’s quiet, peaceful, perfect. Somewhere you can stand and stare. I look into that painting and I wish I could be there.

I like to imagine what the little farmer in the painting is doing. He’s always in the same place, but he’s doing something different each time I look. He’s bringing the cows back from milking. He’s looking around, thinking. He’s going to bring them home for the night, or he’s just admiring the sights. Reflecting on how lucky he is to be in that quiet, peaceful, perfect place where a man can stand and stare. And I look into that painting, in an hour of dark despair, and I wish that I could be there.

I resolve. One day I will own more than a painting of that farm. I will buy the idyll. It’s still there, on that azure Irish Sea shore, with the finger of rock beneath, and perhaps with boats in the distance. It’s still quiet. Tranquil. Perfect. Somewhere peaceful, away from the world. And I long to call it mine.

Even if it is just a retreat. If I have to work in, say, Durham, during the week. I could maybe spend whole summers there. Stopping, just to stand and stare. I could have somewhere to think and contemplate. To study time and watch my films till late. I’ll hang my portraits on the wall. My photographs will adorn the hall. And then I’ll hang, above my bed, the painting of where I lay my head. From every nook books will cram and fall. From the kitchen the tempting scent of fresh bread will call. And it will be all my own.

How much will the current owners want, do you think? Would they ever sell? Half a mill, five hundred thou? Will they laugh, and make all my dreams sink? Who can say, but they. Meanwhile, today, in an hour of dark despair, I look into that painting, and dream of the day when I’ll be there and can call it mine.

©J. Morfa 2023