The Old Mill by Harcourt Tendhall
27 January 2021 { General Fiction }
It was quite a year when you include this adventure, although at the beginning, it was looking surprisingly unremarkable. We weren’t planning a big summer holiday; just a break at Sue’s sister’s place in Spain for a catch-up and chill-out.
Ahead of that for me was the annual cycle tour in July. There’s six of us, all leaders with our cycle club, who take this summer tour. We have similar ability and performance levels, so we can keep up with each other and we all rub along just fine. There was nothing else planned for the remainder of the year.
July was a particularly dry one, with some glorious weather. I was out cycling three times a week and really looking forward to the tour, as it was a route we hadn’t done before. Our tour leader and route plotter, John, called it the Ravens Tour, since we would be travelling from Ravenglass (Nr. Seascale) to Ravenscar (North of Scarborough). A coast-to-coast traverse of England, staying off main roads and enjoying the best of the English countryside, staying overnight at quaint inns and B&B’s.
The plan for a tour is a simple one. Set out on a Saturday, using trains to get us and our bikes to the starting point. From there, cycle reasonable distances to each pre-booked overnight stop and arrive at our final destination on either the following Saturday or Sunday, in time to get the train home. Each of us selects and books an overnight stop. I had drawn the short straw with this. We needed a stop between Appleby and Great Ayton, but I couldn’t find a B&B or pub with enough accommodation for six of us and our bikes. I had to get creative and, by widening my scope, I found somewhere.
We struggled at first to keep our feet dry, as we were using a sea-level coastal path to get us to Seascale, before turning inland. The very first section was just under water, as the tide had come in. By climbing the bank at the side, we avoided most of the water, but had to cycle through one short section. Thankfully, only our tyres got wet. With no other issues, we spent the next few days enjoying our cycling as we travelled from Ravenglass to Cleator, then over Whinlatter Pass to Keswick, and on to Appleby, where we stayed at the Royal Oak Inn.
Our journey from here would take us to the gorgeous old, converted mill I had managed to book for one night, then on to Great Ayton. From there, we would hit the east coast at Whitby and turn South to Ravenscar before our final night in Scarborough. That left us all day Saturday to get home by train.
After breakfast at the Royal Oak, with the sun already cracking flags, we set off, following the route for the day on our Garmin Satnavs for bikes. Without these, such a tour would be extremely difficult and finding the old mill would be almost impossible. We stopped for lunch in a great little café and the owner told us where we would find a small supermarket, about ten miles further on, where we could buy all we needed for an evening meal and breakfast in the old mill.
From the supermarket, it was only another hour to the final turning before arriving at our destination. I arrived at the junction first and waited for the others to join me. We all set off together on the narrow side road, down a steep hill with trees overhanging, and then the complaining started.
‘Why did you book somewhere down a steep hill?’
‘We’re going to have to climb this in the morning!’
‘Can we book a taxi?’
I ignored them, knowing their tone would change when we arrived at the bottom.
As the road levelled out and we left the trees, the view opened to reveal a ford across a fifteen-foot-wide brook, with a narrow wooden footbridge on the left. On the other side were three stone cottages, the one furthest left being the converted water mill we would be staying in. Beyond that was a natural waterfall which had, centuries before, been the source of water for the mill. The old race could be seen under a modern balcony to the first floor of the mill, terminating at the top of the water wheel, which was still intact. There was a well-kept lawn in front of the mill, down to the brook, with outside table and chairs. The whole scene was just beautiful.
Their tone did change, initially to silence, as they took in the scene.
‘Wow!’ said John.
‘This is amazing,’ said Gill.
‘How the hell did you find this place?’ asked Ian.
The phones came out and dozens of photos were taken. We walked our bikes across the bridge and, as we did, a car arrived down the lane and crossed the ford. A lady got out and came over.
I took a couple of steps toward her and asked, ‘Janet?’
‘Yes. You must be Andy.’
We shook hands.
‘Here’s your key. There’s plenty of towels and some basic groceries in the kitchen. I thought you’d all want showers and be hungry, so just help yourselves to what’s there.’
‘Thanks. That really wasn’t necessary.’
‘My pleasure. I’ll collect the key in the morning around ten. If you need to leave earlier, just put it under the plant pot by the door.’
‘Thanks again. We’ll probably see you as we’re leaving.’
She turned and walked back to the car, then stopped and said, ‘By the way, if the mill wheel turns a little, just ignore it. The old sluice gate leaks a bit.’
We waved her off and I unlocked the door. Stepping in was like stepping back two hundred years. The water wheel horizontal shaft, gears and vertical shaft were intact and the hatches between each of the upper floors were open. In front of us, the circular milling stones were still in place, as was the chute down to where you would place the hessian bag to catch the flour. All this was behind safety rails, just to ensure nobody got injured. I remember thinking at the time it was surprising the hatches weren’t locked shut instead of locked open, but then the rope was still there, still threaded through the block, that they would have used to lift sacks of grain up to the top floor.
On the ground floor, the remaining space had been transformed into a stunning open-plan living/dining/kitchen space. Clearly, no expense had been spared in ensuring a perfect finish, which blended perfectly with the original beams and other features, including a large wood-burner in a massive inglenook fireplace. As we were to find out, each of the four en-suite bedrooms were also beautifully finished. I was amazed we had got it within our budget. The pictures I saw on the website really didn’t do it justice.
‘What a cracking place to spend the night,’ said Ian. ‘If we weren’t on a tour I’d stay for a week.’
We set about allocating rooms, stowing the bikes, and unpacking our panniers. Each of us had carried some groceries, so we dumped them all in the well-appointed kitchen area. Tracey and Gill had volunteered to cook the evening meal when we were at the supermarket, so they had selected the food, leaving the lads to hunt for some suitable wine for everyone and a few beers. Since it was still early, we decided to chill out in the garden by the brook before showering, so Tracey opened a bottle of white wine for her and Gill and the lads each grabbed a beer.
The sun was still strong, and it was idyllic to just sit there and chat, with the sound of the waterfall in the background. It was idyllic. Sunshine, waterfall, wine, or beer; just what we needed after a day in the saddle. The girls were the first to move, going for their showers, so they could cook the meal whilst the rest of us showered and changed. I went up around seven o’clock.
As I’d booked it, I took first choice of the rooms, so had selected the room overlooking the brook, with the balcony over the old race. Stepping out there, I noticed a trickle of water in the race, dribbling off the end, into one of the buckets of the water wheel. I realised what Janet had been referring to since, once there was enough water in, gravity would push that bucket down and slowly turn the wheel. This was borne out by the occasional creak of the mill machinery as it turned ever so slightly, accompanied by a low rumble of the millstones, still in place, grinding together, acting as a natural brake to stop the movement.
It must have been around eight o’clock when we sat down for the meal. The food was first class and by eleven o’clock, we all had a belly-full of food and had drunk copious amounts of wine which, we all agreed, had been excellent. Because it was now completely dark outside, without any street lighting, none of us had noticed it had begun to rain; light at first but getting heavier and heavier. Thinking back, I suppose the lightning flash was the first time we noticed, because the thunder we’d heard before that, we thought was just the millstone turning a little.
The thing was, it was now turning more often. We hadn’t really paid any notice as we continued to drink our wine and enjoy our anecdotes and banter. Later, the storm was directly over us now and the deafening thunderclaps were almost simultaneous with the lightning flashes. I turned to look at the machinery as it began to slowly turn continuously and thought I’d better do something about it. The storm would pass but we’d never get any sleep with the millstones rumbling away.
As I did, Neil asked, ‘Is there any way we can stop that?’
‘I’ll take a look,’ I said and went up to the first floor.
There was no brake I could see as, of course, the millstone was directly driven by the vertical shaft, so the brake had to be downstairs, probably just a large lever to disconnect the gears between the vertical and horizontal shafts. I think the wine was making my brain turn even slower than the millstone. Except that was now speeding up. As I descended the stairs, there was an almighty thunderclap, and the lights went out.
I entered the main room and heard Gill scream. The lads had their phone lights on, and I added mine to assist in illuminating the confusion. Then I saw Tracey was stood under the hatch, next to the rope, looking up.
‘Are you looking for me?’ I asked.
‘Ha-ha, yes. I thought you were up there. Is this the brake?’ she asked, her hand on a wooden lever, next to a much heavier one.
‘No! Don’t touch that one,’ I shouted and moved toward her.
Too late; she was pushing it as she finished asking. The rope began rising and I realised she had one foot in the loop at the end of the rope.
‘Your foot,’ I shouted and vaulted the safety rail.
As she looked down, the rope went taught and lifted her leg up. She grabbed at the rope but was too late. It lifted her up and through the hatch.
I pulled the lever that controlled the pully and it snapped off. I grabbed the heavy lever that I now knew would disengage the gears. It was stiff from lack of use. Using all my weight I started to move it, then Neil’s hands appeared, and together we hauled it over. Almost immediately everything literally ground to a halt.
We ran upstairs and found Tracey, hanging upside down, skirt round her head, thrashing around, trying to hide her embarrassment. Another few seconds and she would have been in serious trouble, as her foot was only four feet short of the block. I untangled her foot, whilst Neil and John lifted her clear of the hatch and back onto her feet.
‘I didn’t know you were in such a hurry to get to bed,’ I said, ‘but you could have been a bit more subtle than just flashing your knickers at me.’
‘Andy!’ she and Gill exclaimed in harmony, as the lads roared laughing. Then Tracey laughed and hugged everyone. I was just relieved to see she was unhurt; except for maybe a minor rope-burn to her ankle.
‘It looks like the storm has taken the electric out,’ said John, ‘so I suggest we avoid further mishaps, leave the mess downstairs ‘til morning, and go straight to bed.’
We all agreed to call it a night, and one we would remember for a long time.
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