A DOUBTFUL PLEASURE
It was whilst watching the hurtling sails of the creaking mill that it occurred to us why the country seemed so dull that day; it was the absence of movement, we had the road all to ourselves. There was no flowing river or running stream, and the cattle in the fields were lazy and placid, seemingly as immovable as those in pictures; not even troubling to whisk their tails at real or imaginary flies. Even the birds appeared too indolent to fly; at least they were strangely invisible. An air of solemn repose pervaded the whole countryside until that cheery windmill came into view. It was curious that at the moment the only life in the landscape should be given to it by a building! for the mind pictures a building as a substantial thing not given to any movement.
Shortly after this we reached the pretty and picturesquely situated village of Aslackby—shortened to Asby by a native of whom we asked its name—even the rustic has come into line with the late nineteenth century, so far as not to waste breath or words. The straggling village was situated in a wooded hollow a little below our road; its ancient church and cottages, half drowned in foliage, formed a charming picture. The church looked interesting, but we found the door carefully locked, and not feeling just then our archæological and antiquarian zeal sufficient to induce us to go a-clerk-hunting, a doubtful joy at the best, we quietly, and, I fear, unregretfully, resumed our seats in the dog-cart, for the soft sunshine and sweet air were grateful to our senses, and it pleased us to be out in the open.
Just beyond Aslackby a wayside inn ycleped “The Robin Hood” invited us with the following lines on its sign-board, though unavailingly, to stop and refresh ourselves there:—
Gentlemen if you think good,
Step in and drink with Robin Hood:
If Robin Hood abroad is gone,
Pray take a glass with Little John.
Noting us stop to take down the inscription, and possibly mistaking our motive, the familiar incident once more took place—a beery-looking passer-by approached us and remarked that he could recommend the tap. We thanked him for his kindness, and jokingly responded that we did not happen to be thirsty just then, but we would bear in mind his recommendation should we ever again be in the neighbourhood. “Not thirsty on such a day as this,” he exclaimed with an air of surprise; “why, I be as thirsty as a fish”; but we did not rise to the occasion, and as we drove away the man glanced reproachfully after us, then he disappeared within the building. Perhaps we might have parted with the customary twopence, for the man was civil-mannered, but why should the wanderer by road in England be so frequently expected to have his health drunk by utter strangers? The number of twopences I have already expended for this purpose since I first started my driving tours must be considerable!
Some way farther on our road we chanced upon still another ancient wooden mill busily at work like the former one. It was a picturesque mill of a primitive type that is fast disappearing from the land; the whole structure being supported on a great central post that acts as a pivot, and is bodily turned on this by a long projecting beam acting as a lever, so that the sails can be made to face the wind from whichever quarter it may come; but this arrangement, of course, needs constant watchfulness.
IN A WINDMILL
We pulled up here in order to make a sketch of the old mill, that looked almost too quaint and picturesque to be real, giving one a sort of impression that it must have come out of some painting, an artist’s ideal realised. The worthy miller watched our proceeding with manifest interest from his doorway above, and when we had finished he asked us if we would care to take a glance inside. We did care, and likewise were not averse to have the opportunity of a chat so that we might gather his view of the world and of things in general, for naturally everybody sees the former from his own centre, and through his own glasses. We had to mount a number of rickety steps that communicated with the creaking mill above which oscillated unpleasantly, for the sails were spinning round apace before the breeze, causing the ancient structure to tremble and its timbers to groan like those of a ship in a gale; indeed, when we had safely surmounted the flight of shaking steps we felt that we sadly needed our “sea-legs” to stand at all, and the latter are not always immediately at command when cruising on land. “She’s running a bit free to-day,” exclaimed the miller, smiling and all gray-white with dusty meal, “and she’s not so young as she were by a couple of centuries or so, but she’s quite safe though she do rock and rattle a bit. But Lor’ bless you, I likes to hear her talk; it’s company like, for it’s lonely work up here by oneself all day at times.” It was not only that the ancient mill moved and shook so, but the floor was uneven as well, nor was there overmuch elbow-room to allow a margin for unsteadiness, and it would have been awkward to have been caught by any of the whirring wheels; moreover the noise was confusing and the light seemed dim for the moment after the bright sunshine without. But we soon got used to the new condition of things and our novel and unstable surroundings.
“I wonder she has never been blown right over in a storm during all those years,” I said, “for she is only supported on a single post, though certainly it is a big one.” In truth the mill shook so much in the comparatively steady breeze that it seemed to us a heavy storm would easily have laid her low. Mills, like ships, are always “she’s,” I have observed, though how a man-of-war can be a “she” has always puzzled me. “Well, she may be only supported on one post, but that is of solid heart of oak, as whole and strong to-day as when first put up; not worm-eaten a bit. There’s an old saying you may have heard, ‘there’s nothing like leather’; it ought to be, I thinks, by rights, ‘there’s nothing like oak.’ She do rock though when it blows hard, but I’m used to it; it’s her nature, and she’ll last