the old barn.

We’ve been making slow but steady progress on one of the most meaningful projects at Burnt Hill: restoring the old bank barn.

Built sometime around 1890, it stands at the bottom of the hill, along Burnt Hill Rd., like a stubborn old sentinel — weathered, lopsided, and undeniably proud. It’s a barn that has seen it all. And somehow, it's still standing.

I often catch myself wondering what it’s seen — the generations of farmers who came before me, the seasons that rolled across this ridge, the storms it’s weathered. Cows and horses stabled in the basement, pigs rooting in straw, tobacco leaves hanging in the rafters. It served as a hay loft, a tractor repair shop, a place to rest after long days in the field. One building, always evolving — serving whatever the land, or the people, asked of it.

Since we arrived, it's already worn many hats: storage for our apiary and vineyard equipment, a dry place for two litters of piglets, even a rainy-day hideout for my kids — complete with a giant trampoline and a rope swing. That’s the thing about a good barn — it holds more than tools. It holds stories.

Not long after we bought the farm, I invited a local historian — a kind woman who attends our local church — to come take a look. She confirmed what I suspected: this was a true turn-of-the-century Maryland bank barn. Timber-framed. Stone foundation. Built into a hill, with an open loft above and ground-level access to the basement. But what really struck me was something he said offhandedly, almost like it was obvious:

“This barn wasn’t built from catalog lumber or materials hauled in from elsewhere,” she said. “It’s a building of this land.”

And she was right. You can see it in the timbers — hand-hewn from trees felled just yards away. You can see it in the stone foundation — stacked with rocks pulled from the very fields we now farm. The mortar, the boards, the beams — all sourced here. It’s humbling, honestly. There’s something deeply grounding about knowing your barn and your soil are literally made of the same stuff.

That said, when we took ownership of the property, the barn was in rough shape. The roof was rusted and leaking badly. The stone foundation was crumbling. Some of the major beams were bowed or split from decades of water damage. The siding had gone unpainted for so long it was practically melting into the earth. It felt like any strong storm could knock it over.

We knew we had to move fast if we wanted to save it.

So, with the help of my dad, a carpenter by trade, we started where we could — shoring up the weakest spots, bracing what needed bracing. From there, we stripped the rusted roof and replaced it. We rebuilt and re-mortared the stone foundation. We replaced damaged beams using locally milled hardwoods from Hicksville Planing Mill in Washington County — just like the original builders would have done. The siding came next.

That’s where things got interesting.

Inspired by the minimalist, almost monastic feel we’re after at Burnt Hill — and honestly, curious to try something new — I decided to experiment with Shou Sugi Ban (焼杉板), an ancient Japanese technique for preserving wood by charring it with fire. It’s a process I’d admired from afar: slow, smoky, a little dangerous, a lot beautiful.

The idea is to lightly burn the surface of the wood, which not only protects it from insects and rot, but also leaves behind this dark, mesmerizing texture — like embers frozen in time. I’ll be the first to admit I’m no expert, and I relied on a black wood stain to backstop my beginner’s technique. But the result? Striking.

The entire barn is now dressed in black — the charred siding giving it a quiet power, a kind of elegant gravity. It feels at once old and new, historic and forward-looking. A building that speaks to the past and points to the future of Burnt Hill.

There’s a lot of shiny, fast things happening in agriculture these days — big tractors, smart systems, polished tasting rooms. And I get it — we’re doing some of that too. But there’s something about restoring an old barn board by board, stone by stone, that puts everything else in perspective.

This barn isn’t just a structure. It’s a commitment. A promise to steward not only the land but the history written into it. It’s part of the soul of this farm.

And now, after 130 years — and a little love, fire, sweat, and Shou Sugi Ban — it’s ready for the next chapter.

Whatever the farm needs next, this old barn is ready.