Wheel of time

Another ruined farm. This one was inhabited, so I was told, by an old man who lived here until maybe thirty years ago. When I first came across the place the far end wall had partially collapsed and the roof hung aslant but you could climb up some steps and peer through an open doorway to where, across the broken floor, stood the old brass bedstead he must have died in - and maybe was born in too.

Since then the sheep and the cattle have sheltered here and the roof has fallen in. The dwelling stands in a beautiful situation though, high up on the hillside looking south across the valley. There is no road but old lanes, grassy now, lead in several directions. Aged fruit trees, crippled by time and wind, still produce blossom in the spring and in the autumn I come and collect damsons here.

The old smallholding has something of extra special interest too: the remains of a water wheel still in situ, visible here behind and to the right of my dog. These were once fairly common as a modest means of powering farm machinery. A stream fed a pool which acted as a reservoir. When the water was released it ran down a narrow channel (the race) and hit the paddles of the wheel to turn it. The energy would spin a driveshaft that could be connected to something like a small grain mill or a generator. Most of these waterwheels have vanished now but this one, made locally, remains here frozen in time.

I've recently told a local mill enthusiast about the existence of this wheel. He's documenting the survivors but I doubted he knew of it. He didn't.