Tolkien Weekend at Sarehole Mill

I am at Sarehole Mill writing this. Yes, actually at Sarehole Mill. This fact is almost incredible for me - an Australian who has only ever *dreamed* of visiting this site of such enormous significance to fans of JRR Tolkien. To be looking upon the cobbles and bricks and architectural shapes that Tolkien himself once looked upon (and by which he was inspired) is, for me, thrilling.

Sarehole Mill courtyard

The mill, seen from the courtyard

I sit at a table in the courtyard. If I look up, beyond the brim of my straw hat and slightly to my right is the mill's chimney, protruding from the beautifully weather-speckled shingle roofs like a square tower of red brick and clinker brick - a monument to the steam engines that once supplemented the mill's water power. Beneath my feet, grey cobblestones. To my left, a white-haired gentleman with a northern accent is seated at another of the tea-tables, talking to himself. To my right, a merry band of people in Middle-earth-inspired costume, laughing loudly and drinking with great enthusiasm.

Birds are singing. I can hear the distant low thunder of traffic on a nearby road. Music is playing in the *other* distance - a barrel-organ. The sunlight is clear and brilliant golden white; those delightful little topaz flies (mayflies?) are dancing in clouds, making fairy shadows on my pages as I write. Two young boys wielding 'swords' are chasing one another, yelling things like 'Frodo!' and 'Dodo!' Now the old gentleman's grandchildren are sitting with him, conversing happily.

It's the Tolkien Society's Weekend at Sarehole Mill and these lovely, lively adults and children and dogs don't know it, but they are hobbits in the Shire. There is face-painting, costume-wearing, archery, woodcraft, cakes and wine. This is the opposite end of the spectrum from the solemn academic appreciation of Tolkien's work, but just as essential to its understanding and enjoyment, injecting the vitality often lacking in dry intellectual discussion. Even in the 21st century, the Shire goes ever on.

Cecilia Dart-Thornton

Author of THE ILL-MADE MUTE