County News
Don’t fade away
Proud history needs innovative adaptation
For sale: well-used and productive barn that time has passed by. For more than century, this Morrison Point barn has provided income for several generations. It has offered shelter for its animals and storage for its feed, without which the animals could not survive the long North Marysburgh winter. The proud tall structure was a symbol of this farming family’s prosperity and place in the community.
The original 30-foot by 50-foot barn was likely raised in the 1840s or perhaps the ’50s. It is perched on a small ridge before the land falls away toward the Black River where it joins Lake Ontario. A cluster of majestic red oak trees stand guard nearby.
The barn was crafted well. Built to endure. Engineer Ernie Margetson wanders through the interior pointing out the well preserved features and attention to detail. He points admiringly to the 30-foot pine timbers, 14 inches square, that form the frame of the original barn—the rigid skeleton that has endured countless storms, as many as 170 winters and a steady stiff breeze blowing off Lake Ontario. Even now as an empty shell it still stands proudly and sturdily in defiance of obsolescence.
“You won’t find trees like that, that would provide a timber beam as true and long as these any where near here now,” says Margetson. “It tells you something about the land the original farmers cleared and the trees that once soared over this property.”
His trained and perceptive eye discerns easily the original barn and the enhancements that came later. The highly specialized and precise joints hold this frame together nearly 200 years after it was built. He points to an inch wide and deep groove that runs along one interior beam, that would have been carved out by hammer and chisel along a length of 30 feet or more. He explains that this was the original exterior wall; the exterior barn boards would have been inserted into this slot after the frame was raised.
Each detail tells a story about the factors driving the farm economy of the day. When built, the barn was based on a traditional three-bay design adapted in North America from the original English barn. In this barn, the left mow was modified to provide for grain storage or some animals on the ground floor, leaving plenty of room for hay in the mow above.
This original design worked for a nearly six decades—but by then the industrial revolution was changing many aspects of life, including farming. Mechanization began to take some of the back work out farming, allowing one or two men to do more and to become more productive.
So, around the turn of the century, this barn and many of its vintage underwent a significant transformation and expansion. Specifically a barn hay carriage rack system was purchased to greatly increase the speed and efficiency of moving hay in and out of the mows. To accommodate for this, the roof had to be raised. It also increased storage capacity. Meanwhile, more animals were kept inside at least for part of the day. A stable was added below the barn, beneath the expanded footprint. Access was gained through the sloping grade on the south side.
For another seven decades the barn served the family on this pretty patch of land on Morrison Point. But technology continued to change the business of farming. In time the hay rack was replaced by baling machines and elevators that transported the hay in an orderly and compressed manner into the mow.
With each passing generation it became harder to find the labour to take in the hay. About 40 years ago, small bales began to be replaced with much larger ones.
“Hay isn’t touched by human hands anymore,” explains Margetson.
This innovation spelled the end of the classic barn—the defining profile on Ontario’s rural skyline for nearly two centuries. Large bales can’t be stored in this barn design. Now hay is often wrapped in plastic or it is stored in a low-slung tin building near a similarly designed stable or feedlot.
These advances meant improved productivity but also higher capital costs. Faced with a decision about getting in deeper or getting out—and perhaps a lack of enthusiasm from the next generation—this family and many others concluded it was time to get out.
Now some decades have passed and the family would like to see the barn find a new purpose, before the elements bring it down. They found Ernie Margetson—widely known and respected for his work in preserving and salvaging these iconic emblems of the County.
Margetson knows there is a market in the U.S. for these well-made barns, either for parts—to show up as a feature in a trendy bar or restaurant—or as complete structures. Yet he would like to see it stay in the County.
Margetson has overseen the deconstruction and relocation of a handful of traditional barns—the most striking example on Chase Road north of Closson. This magnificent barn was salvaged from a farm near Georgetown, moved and impressively restored as a home.
He rescued another classic barn that overlooked Picton Bay and had it rebuilt on his own property on Lake Consecon. He has assembled an array of specialized tradespeople that he can call upon who understand these structures and share his passion for their restoration.
He understands, too, that saving these barns requires innovative thinking about what they can do and what they offer. He knows better than most that these structures won’t be adapted for traditional livestock farming.
Just as traditional farming in the County is being augmented by more specialized forms of agriculture—organically grown, wine growing, bread making—Margetson believes there is an opportunity to find new ways of making the traditional barn relevant in today’s County farm.
What a beautiful story, Rebecca.
Rebecca,
thanks for sharing. I hope that your beautiful barn will create many more such memories for other generations to come.
David
This is my barn.
We moved to The County when I was 13 from Toronto, on one condition- that I could have a barn for the horse I would someday own. My parents, stained glass artists, fell in love with this picture perfect property one day on a drive out from the city, and even though there wasn’t even a “for sale” sign on the lawn, they knew it was destined to be theirs.
When we moved in, the barn, much like the house, was in a complete state of disrepair, and my Dad and I shoveled for what felt like weeks before we found the concrete floor of the barn, which was poured in 1920 according to the date etched into it. We also had to reinforce the wooden floor of the hayloft above. He and I built the stalls together from scraps of wood found in the barn, as well as the shipping crates from their stained glass. We picked stones for days from the paddocks, and came up with a fencing solution that would be far less maintenance than the old split rail fencing. I spent months preparing it for my first horse to come home, stealing old furniture to create a tack room and repurposing shipping palates to store shavings for the stall bedding where cows were kept in years long ago. I used to love our trips to the co-op in Picton to scout out hinges for this, buckets for that, a light fixture for this stall, a new gate for the paddock.
I’d climb up into the hayloft and dare myself to go higher and higher, but I never did summon the courage to climb to the top. We’d stock the top with fresh cut hay from our top field, which we split with our neighbor who had both the equipment to harvest it and the livestock to eat what my two horses and sidekick donkey couldn’t consume. Even full of enough hay for the winter, it was never half full. I can’t imagine how you could ever go through that much hay, even with a huge herd of livestock.
My teenage years were full of joy, largely in part due to this barn. Sure, it was the perfect make out spot. But it was also where I learnt all the most important lessons in life: responsibility, action and unconditional love. I used to sleep in my horses stalls with them when there was a thunderstorm, or if I had even a remote suspicion of colic. But I’m sure it was to put me at ease, not them. This barn nurtured me and got me through my toughest years, including the death of my father when I was 18.
My dad used to always say that animals are what hold a barn up; if a barn’s left empty, it’ll always fall down. And it’s true. When I moved back to the city at 18 for university, there was no one to take care of the horses. And without my father’s income supporting the family anymore, I lived out the tragic equestrian story of the girl who had to sell her horse to pay for tuition fees. And barn boards started popping off as if it was bursting with contempt for its underuse.
While I would love to be back on the farm, it turns out my life has taken me quite further afield, working on social and environmental justice issues from the favelas of Brazil to the rainforest of Indonesia and beyond. It was with great reluctance that we listed our property for sale, not knowing what a new owner might do with the incredible history of this property. Even considering tearing down a barn of this magnitude should be criminal. But the time has come to share this special property with someone who will love and cherish it as we have, and to give it a purpose once again.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Sweetman