Silent it stands, its grey walls and white quoins holding their own against the years of weathering. The windows closed, the door firmly locked to the outside world. The tarmac playground overrun by moss, the grass play area a haven of weeds and brambles. The bike shed no more to be seen.

Inside the two classrooms carry the remnants of their former schooldays. Tables and chairs stacked to the sides. The old blackboard in the corner of each room. The nature table, once laden with the offerings from the local hedge-grows, and the odd seaside shells, stands barren and untouched.

The teachers table still stands dominantly in the most prominent place in the room. The old stove, both a curse and a saviour of many a winter morning, stands cold now.

The old school house saw hundreds of children pass through its rooms. Often two, maybe even three or more generations of families sharing tales of their days in this old school house. You would be forgiven for thinking it holds fond memories for everyone who served their time as students within the walls of this old school house.

Any school house should be a place of joy and wonder, of learning about yourself as much as learning from your books. And for many, the old school house was just that – a place of nurturing, and wonderment, a place where the child was encouraged and nurtured; a place where the child was moulded into a scholar, a young adult, a kind individual taught to care for others as well as for themselves.

But unfortunately for too many children, the old school house was none of the above. It was a place of nightmares, of endless grief and suffering. Some would even call it abuse – physical and emotional abuse inflicted by one who should have known better, but somehow did not. Instead of being a place that nurtured and encouraged, the old school house was a place that degraded and belittled. A place that did not see the value in every childs contribution.

A place that only valued the academically gifted – the scholar. If you were not one of these children, if reading was difficult, or Irish was a chore, or if Maths was nigh on impossible, then instead of guidance and support, you were shouted at; instead of encouragement and praise, you were belittled; instead of being brought forward, you were left behind.

The door of the school house may be locked for many years now, with its many secrets buried in the thick walls. But the secrets are not really secrets are they – how can they be secrets if everyone knows about them?

Its grey exterior, damp and cold, uninviting. A stark contrast to its exterior of old with its whitewashed walls adorned by rambling roses; a physical welcome, enticing passers by to stop and rest a while.

A monument to a simpler time. Bereft of modern conveniences – no electricity, no running water, no sanitary services – the cottage was, and is, simplicity in the extreme. Just 3 simple rooms. An out-house to the rear. A paddock for the work horse. A haggart for the vegetables. All that was needed for a simple life.

The cottage walls are no doubt steeped in the history of a family long gone. If only they could talk, what stories they could tell. Tales of simple pleasures, of innocent times.

Through the passing years, and the lure of modern comforts, the cottage has faded in favour. No longer the hub of weekday dinners, or Sunday lunches; no longer the place of summer holidays or Christmas get togethers; and never again the host venue of wakes or anniversaries.

And now, silent the cottage stands. No more visitors cross the threshold; no fires dance in the hearth; no kettle sings to signal the tea. Scattered scraps of paper and remnants of broken crockery adorn the floor. An old broken chair lies against the mildewed wall. A few damp embers sit at the edge of the hearth. Physical reminders of the life that once lived here. Slowly fading, slowly disintegrating. Just like the cottage.

But forever these will last, these childhood memories of the cottage. Affectionately, and forever, known simply as ‘Uncle Mikes’.