I stood peering through the darkened glass windows, wondering why this place, of all places, had to close as well. I could make out the old counter and the worn wooden floor. Behind, hundreds of little boxes lined the wall, decades old, once home to countless fixings, hooks, fasteners, handles, and rubber bands, each unique in its use and worthy of its place. Rickards of Ludlow opened as an ironmonger at the top of the high street in the mid-1800s. Over time, it became the one place you could find whatever you needed to repair almost anything, a treasure trove of knowledge for mending and homemaking. And now, it lay empty and neglected.

Is a legacy only a legacy when the story is remembered and retold?