Tower and Town, April 2017 (view the full edition)The Windmill BoyThe Wilton Windmill was built in 1821 and was in use for over a century. It is found on a chalk ridge between Wilton and Great Bedwyn. In the 1960s the mill was added as a grade two listed building and in 1971 the Wiltshire County Council purchased the mill then leased it to the Wiltshire Historic Building Trust who began to restore the mill back to working condition in 1972. In 1976 it was back and making flour again. The mill is now managed by the Wilton Windmill Society which was formed in 1976 and is operated entirely by volunteers. In the 1980's the mill was struggling financially which led to the formation of a cricket team to raise funds for the mill by playing sponsored matches. The mill still produces flour to this day.
The following creative piece is based on a 19th century miller and his family. “The wooden door squeaked shut behind me as I sneaked out onto the cobble stone path. I could still hear my mother's racket as pots and pans clinked together as she scrubbed. A nifty escape meant that she had been unable to sense me leave. The path depleted and a beaten earth track lay underfoot. The wind gently pounded the branches of the overhanging trees which surrounded me. As the leaves rattled in harmony the light beamed through them casting splinted shadows on to the path ahead. The views stretched for miles over the Wiltshire Downs, which were lined along every ridge with chalk. It continued over each rich hilltop which lay undisturbed and thriving as my eyes gazed upon it. At last, in sight, was what I had crept out for. The four white blades glinted and glimmered as they reached off into the clear blue sky. The sails circulated around endlessly and effortlessly. The mill itself was less delicate. It possessed even rows of light brick, which went up for three floors. A small castle-like window was dotted on each smooth surface to mark every floor. There was a soft groaning coming from the mill. For me this was the sound of work every day since my birth night. I crept with light feet around the cylindrical building until I reached a narrow opening to see through. I would have to lie low down on the dirt and look in at an angle. I made myself comfortable and peered through the tight gap. There I saw him, his back turned to me, sweating profusely as he heaved sack after sack of fine flower. Like a machine he refused to show fatigue. He grabbed two bags at a time, heaving them onto his shoulders, before pacing a few yards, and releasing them onto the cart with a thud. Relief was short lived, as in two steps the weight was added again sinking down his shoulders and globing his back. After a last couple of bags, he perched on a bale for a while. Silence fell. I continued to gaze at him. He drew controlled deep breaths and sat back on his hands. In a moment, I dragged my left shoe across the dirt gravel floor, sending a scrape through the quiet. A brief pause followed, which in turn was proceeded by a calm and asserted, “Come here”, given in a deep powerful voice. I scrambled to my feet and ran in a curve to the doorway, where I burst through to find the strong figure knelt, standing with his arms wide open. I clattered straight into him and squeezed with all my force. We released, and with a smirk he ruffled my hair and told me to head back home. After another exchange of smiles, I obeyed and ran back out the door. A warm feeling set my mind and heart racing as I disappeared back down the path leading home. The feeling that one day, I might grow up to be like the strong, hard-working miller. That I might grow up to be like my father.” Robert Milne and Mishari Sakka |
