The Windmill

As you may or may not know, I love a windmill. Old school style, wind turbines, ones that have been converted into homes or plain old empty ones, I really like them. I've even been known to divert the car (sorry Mat!) to see them at close range if I spot one in the distance - that's how much of a loser I am when it comes to them. 

It's possibly the sails that I like or even their shape or just what happens inside them that fascinate me, I'm really not sure. So when Mat spotted one in Meopham last Sunday whilst driving along, it would have been rude not to stop and have a nosey.  I think we were possibly the only visitors that day as the lady guardian there couldn't throw enough leaflets at us and mentioned how we had made her day.  

And so we climbed up a windmill! Having never done this before, it was quite exciting and for the first time in months I got a climbing fix albeit up and down the steep ladders.  

I could bore you with the intricacies of how flour is made from the big machinery inside but  a). I'm not a miller   b). I didn't read all of the explanations next to the machines  c). there's always Google   d). the poem below possibly explains it all anyway.

Outside Meopham Windmill

Windy Miller rocking that hat like only he can

Climbing a funny looking crag

The Windmill by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Behold! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place,
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
I meet it face to face,
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low, melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.