On cowsheds, manure and crossroads

The cowhouse sets the boundaries; between the cowhouses the village opens up, grouped around the crossroads. On this side of the cowshed the unknown begins. If you turn north, you get to Nilssons; in the other direction, you get to Gunnar. On your way up the ridge to the village, you see piles of manure, they greet visitors no matter what direction you’re coming from. The village turns its back on the surrounding countryside. In the courtyard stands the block for chopping wood, here is the orchard and the bridge up to the hayloft.
John E. Franzén, known as the painter of kings, once painted an empty cowhouse in the Rumskulla neighbourhood; now it hangs in a museum somewhere. There are a lot of empty cowhouses nowadays. Some became dance halls, some have been pulled down, but most of them stand cold and empty, wondering where all the warm cows have gone. Monuments to a time that smelled of manure, a slightly sickening smell of milk and wet, steaming lowing on a cold spring evening.