The Miller’s Tale

“There has been a mill on this site for over a thousand years,” the information poster inside the restaurant tells us.
“It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” I say to Dad. We’re on our first bike ride since my operation a month ago and we’ve taken a new route and found ourselves at this old water mill. “Didn’t we use to come up here when I was little?”
“A couple of times,” Dad says.
There’s a mixed flock of ducks and geese quacking at each other and a family of moorhens stepping over the grass, on their huge but delicate yellow feet.
“We’d better be getting back,” Dad says, and we clamber back onto our bikes.
Cycling past fields of horses, we arrive at the main road. It’s lined with enormous sycamore trees on both sides. They are putting on a magnificent display: green, yellow, red, orange leaves – reaching up to the sky, covering the roads and pavements. The November air is crisp and cold, and it’s a wonderful sensation: zooming through the multicoloured leaf tunnel towards home.

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