Bramwell

My family home was a little cottage that stood alone at the end of Wodolf road, right next to where an old church stood. The church was over two hundred years old, held a lot of history, and had been neglected over time to become its present ruins. The stone building had dilapidated to a big heap of rubble, spiting efforts of fine architectural men who built it. Great history lay within its haggard walls, and as a result, it became the village monument. Seeing old pictures of it was disheartening and echoed sorrows of its past beauty.