Nestled out of place among the fields and woods, next in a solid line after the church, manor house and farmhouse, is a derelict factory building. The cavernous shell of the main hall, with its high roof and part-open frontage, is redolent of an aircraft hangar, albeit one for a very small plane. A few desultory drums and barrels on the concrete floor testify to light use today as an agricultural store.
At the back, and down the left side, are doorways without doors. They lead into smaller rooms where there are light fittings without lights, benches unmanned, a fusebox unpowered, and window frames rimmed with icicles of grimy glass. A tick, tick, tick sounds from wall-mounted fans that catch in the lifting breeze, quickening as it rises, as if an unseen hand from decades ago had moved the dial – “Turn it up, Alf!”
