The harvest
Cut in August, milled within the month.
The wheat you can see from the mill door goes in the barn a few days after the combine. Rye follows, then spelt, then oats when the weather lets us. Nothing travels further than a tractor can in a morning.
Eleven farms, nine miles
The wheel turns
Five and a half metres of elm and water.
The sluice lifts and the Wheel Brook drops down the launder into thirty-six oak buckets. The wheel never turns faster than a walking pace, and everything else in the mill follows it: the pit wheel, the wallower, the great spur wheel, the stone nut.
About 6 turns a minute
Grain in the hopper
The miller sets the feed by ear.
Grain runs from the hopper down the shoe, and a little iron damsel rattles it towards the eye of the stone. Too fast and the stones choke. Too slow and they run dry and heat the flour. You listen for the clatter that sounds right.
Tap, tap, tap, tap
Between the stones
Closer than a sheet of paper.
The runner stone turns over a fixed bedstone and the furrows cut into them shear each grain open and sweep the meal outwards. Lift the runner and you can see the dressing: eight harps, hand cut with a mill bill, redone every few weeks.
French burr, 4 feet across