Although my husband and I could not see the mill in operation the day we visited because its massive mill stone was being cleaned by the miller, we climbed upstairs to look down at the wheel and sluice from its topmost window, and to photograph the fall foliage from another vantage point. Once downstairs again, we sat for a few moments on the benches at the back of the mill, and tried to reflect on what the farmers who sat there many years ago might have conversed about.

As I sketched the mill for this oil painting,  fishermen over six feet tall, wearing denim  overalls, sat patiently on the bank, angling for trout. They had mounded earth across a mountain rivulet, which flowed just to the right of the oil painting, and kept their catch cool in the tiny “pond” until they were ready to go home.

Yellow swallowtail butterflies darted about us, unconscious of their loveliness against the backdrop of the autumn foliage. The swallowtails, not included in this oil painting, seemed as common and unheeded by the locals as white cabbage butterflies are in Ontario.

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