Everywhere I go, I see Wooden Arms houses. Homes and buildings that have been used, inhabited, perhaps cherished, and now have been left behind.I love these places – the stain of story that they carry in the grain of their wooden walls, the hollow in the tread of their step, the sign that once heralded both destination and function, but now only signifies loss. Absence.
I’m also becoming increasingly aware that they are passing. Ghosts of buildings, a feature of any road trip landscape, but fading, literally, before our eyes. Wood. Tin. The rain will disperse them all.These ones I snapped at Mangaweka recently. If you had the inclination you could buy four shops for a bargain price. I wish I had cause to uproot my family to Mangaweka. Think of the stories you would inherent. The ghosts that would creep from the corners at night, each with their history to tell. Priceless!