In some of the remote Western Isles of Scotland, it’s customary to build a spanking-new double glazed bungalow adjacent to the tumbledown, picturesque one of your ancestors. You move, and use the old gaff for sheep or your old car.
In Ireland, I remembered this when noticing – one several occasions – the siting of a quaint miniature evocation of your forefathers’ hovel, slap bang on the front lawn of your new hacienda.