manor - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The manor was red brick and not nearly so old as visitors assumed. The owner had thought himself worthy if being gentry, yet hadn't the title or the social status. The old money looked down on him as classless "new money" and he'd felt the need to show them his importance. The walls grew from the manicured lawn into an abode so large it had
"wings" and more windows than a casual glance could count. Everything about it said expensively built, inside and out. Now it was government property, seized in the raids and put to use for surveillance and military operations.
The manor was the ego of Mr Derby laid out in brick; it was overly large and ostentatious to the point of intimidation. It lay on the tamed hill as if it had been dropped there from outer space, making no attempt to camouflage into the countryside.
The manor decayed. The bricks crumbled and the windows gave in to the winds long before. Inside the rooms, the halls, the kitchens lay home to critters and the roof let in more rain than it kept out. The oak floors lay strewn with leaves and debris, the staircase swept up toward an upper landing that had fallen away. Come morning light the wrecking ball would come to finish what the elements had started, but for now Tom wanted to explore just one more time... one more treasure hunt.
The manor was the perfect depiction of the man who lived inside. It had grown old, and tattered, the windows broken and the bricks crumbling. Yet, despite it’s faults and failings it was still a thing of beauty.
The stairs ahead were twisted in a perfect spiral, like a child's slinky toy pulled from each end. Each stair was likely a deep walnut, but with the thick layer of undisturbed dust it was hard to tell. The inner edge was painted antique cream, and when Saskia disturbed the dust layer the paint was quite perfect underneath; no dirt and no flaking or dents. It was as if it was perfect one day and abandoned the next, just like the rest of the world. So where were the skeletons? Or if still alive, why didn't anybody take their clothes or possessions? She let her hand fall on to the black iron rail, rough in it's rustic charm and placed her weight on the first step. There was no creak or sign of rot, they were as solid as the day they were made. She walked swiftly to the top leaving her shoe prints behind.
The manor walls sprang from the soil like the very dirt insulted them. Such ornate sandstone was too pretty to touch the earth, indeed it was fancier than many a palace. The windows were oversized, mullioned and almost cathedral-like. Inside every room was bathed in daylight from the first kiss of dawn to the twilight hours. By night the oak floors and antique furniture are bathed in the flicker of yellow candlelight from the many candelabras that still hang there; to the eternal irritation of the housekeeper electricity has never been installed.
The first duke had commissioned the manor to impress the bride of his choice and apparently it had worked rather too well; he got the bride and many mistresses besides. So much so that half the village had some sort of claim to inherit the old place. Not that it did them any good; for time out of mind it had been passed father to eldest son. The "spare" children got an education and then had to make their own way in the world.
The Manor grew out of the manicured lawn like an infant castle. It's nascent stone walls were a pale grey and were barren of the moss or ivy that clung to the walls of the older homes in the village. It's large oak door was double wide and was sheltered under a wide porch supported by stone pillars. The driveway was grandiose, sweeping into a wide circle in front of the dwelling with an ornate fountain in the center. The owner was a businessman trading in goods he couldn't discuss in polite company and this manor was his way of buying respectability.
He owned a medium-sized Manor, to the west of the town centre. It wasn’t too grand on the outside, with plain mucky brown-coloured bricks and simple rectangular windows, but it was furbished with all of the bits and bobs he’d collected over his travels, resulting in an organised yet disarrayed concoction of colours and styles.
The Manor was a complete wreck. Black, withered vines clung to the brick in desperation, and several windows on the ground floor were boarded up while the rest were covered in filth and grime. The once prized gardens were now overrun with weeds that leeched everything from the soil without mercy.