farmhouse

Last week, the kids were on Easter holiday from school and we went and stayed at an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

A local Kurdish farmer later took me to a border spot near his farmhouse.

We stood on the rooftop of a derelict farmhouse meters away from a Turkish tank and a razor wire fence marking the end of Turkey.

My sister found it in the back of one of the farmhouse closets.

They are both in the study of my old farmhouse, in a room that has three nice sized windows, each with a lovely, bucolic view.

The $5 million property as described by the New York Times, has “rolling fields and a farmhouse once owned by a Vanderbilt.”

What might be of a disturbing nature in the old farmhouse could not, she thought, be as fearsome as the approaching tempest.

Just as Mr. Darwood drove around to the door with his sleigh Andy came back to the farmhouse.

The Darwood farmhouse set back from the road, among some cedar trees.

Here and there was a farmhouse or a country home on a slope, set in the midst of fields just turning green.

When Willy was two years old, he lived in a red farmhouse with a yard in front of it.