This old local flour mill is so beautiful.
Slowly crumbling with what is left of the old wooden mill wheel all knotted up in ivy and thorns.
I don`t suppose anyone even knows who owns it anymore
The brook that would have turned the wheel still rushes past and the water diverts inside the mill but sits in a stagnant pool without the wheel to move it along.
In the early 1800s it would have been a hive of activity milling flour for the village.
Silent, still and so sad now.
Every time we pass it calls out to me to bring it back to life it and get that wheel working again.
Can you imagine living in that huge beamed high ceiling cottage with the sound of the water slooshing around the wheel?
A la prochaine mes belles