Animal Farm

Is what I call this place.

It's a smallholding on a quiet back lane and it actually goes by the name of Pontbren Pwll-y-brag which means 'wooden bridge at the malt pool'. Just out of sight beyond the house the road fords a small river and there is a wooden footbridge for pedestrians. I don't know what the connection was with malt.

Whenever I pass by it's the same: animals everywhere. Usually a dog is sprawled in front of the house, a cat surveys the scene, calves, horses or pigs peer from byres and sheds, there are ducks on the river and geese in cackling command of the road. Today there were two piglets in a sty to the left, four peacocks came stalking out from the right and guinea fowl were shrieking in the garden. But no people! There never are any to be seen. The animals have taken over.

Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals. He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that will prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself.
George Orwell, Animal Farm