Last winter, I walked the row of hórreos above Combarro before the tide turned. Their granite bodies did not sit on the landscape; they hovered over it, held by tenacious piers and the narrowest promise of air. Every slit was a small argument against damp, rot, and the easy logic of the ground.
Preservation is a matter of distance
That distance makes the building legible. The tornarratos plates interrupt each esteo like quiet punctuation, while the roofline repeats crosses and pyramids against a low sky. At Carnota, repetition stretches across the field for thirty-four metres: not ornament, but a measured system for keeping harvest, weather, and time in balance.