MANIFESTO

The Remembering Village.

About memory, material, and community.

1 —
The Waiting Beam

There lies a beam — oak, chalk-numbered — resting on two quiet trestles. It has carried centuries of dinners, disputes, and lullabies. It has listened to the weather in every dialect. It is not outdated; it is patient. It waits for us to remember the promise we once made to one another: to leave a place better than we found it.

2 —
Let Matter Matter

We begin with what exists. We do not apologize for the old; we let it lead. Doors become tables, frames become stairs, sections become light. We reveal the joinings, because trust belongs to equal sight. Lime, clay, and oak breathe with us — materials that fail gently and can be forgiven. Every preserved element is carbon we do not spend, and memory we do not lose.

3 —
A Home Is a Contract

A house is more than shelter. It is a contract between past and future, signed in daylight and warmed by hands. We build small loads and large lives; spaces tuned to the seasons; courtyards that invite strangers to stay until they become neighbors. Children learn the grain of wood by touch, the logic of repair by watching. Belonging begins here: in a place that explains itself.

4 —
The Minimum That Multiplies

Our rule is modest: add as little as possible, rearrange as much as necessary. The effect is not modest. Costs settle. Operation tames itself. Beauty arrives unannounced. When making is visible, maintenance becomes shared; when maintenance is shared, community grows. From restraint comes abundance — an abundance that can be lived in.

5 —
Yields That Outlast Us

For investors: value that lies in structure, not spectacle; risk secured by reversibility; a plaque on the wall that translates ethics into tangible numbers. For landowners: an asset that gathers culture as trees gather shade. For architects: a brief written by the place, not by fashion. For families: a home that still makes sense when grandchildren are tall enough to reach the top shelf.

6 —
The Center Is the Common

There stands a long table. Upon it, the village keeps its promises: a tool library, a loaf of still-warm bread, a map from the ledger telling the life of beam A173 — where it began, what we changed, the carbon we saved, who did the work. This is no decoration. This is stewardship spoken in plain language.

7 —
How We Measure What We Love

We measure what counts: kilograms of CO₂ we did not emit; euros kept in regional craftsmanship; hours of shared life — measured in workshops, open days, and the time a visitor lingers before deciding to stay. We count because counting is the way the future keeps its records.

8 —
Why Now

Three scarcities define our time: atmosphere, affordability, and attention. Most projects answer one and borrow from the others. WILARI answers all three with one gesture: preserve what can be preserved, and gather it together. Less new. More true. The difference is not subtle when you live in it.

9 —
An Open Door

Take a beam. Enable a workshop. Bring a piece of land or a pair of hands. There is room at the table for capital, skill, and curiosity. We place your name where it belongs: in the grain of something that learns as it ages.

10 —
The Remembering Village

We build no monuments. We build a habit: of care, of repair, of kindness. The oak remembers. The clay forgives. The lime is honest. And the village — this village — remembers you back.