To Where We Belong - Musings on a Mill Pond

He first went there with his school, long ago. 

The teachers had told the classes that the stone work was from Roman times; remnants from hundreds of years back. 

It turned out that it wasn’t Roman at all. 

It was an old mill first used for smelting lead in the late 1600s and then between around 1760 and 1850 fine paper was produced there to wrap the products of the nearby iron and steel industry - often cutlery and probably the pins, needles and wire made in the local area.

All that remained today was the pond which had provided power by supplying a water wheel  and some and some ruinous buildings. Romantic maybe – but not Roman.

When they had met years later, he could not wait to take her to this place, high up on the hillside in the depths of the forest with the stream trickling, then rushing down from the tops. Tawny, hazel, mustard and coral tainted leaves and ferns painted the background for the scene.
And she had loved it too.                                                                                                                    

It was an almost secret place and a place of secrets with its overhanging trees and woodland walk not used by many. The millpond itself lay clear and still holding its memories from times gone by. 
This day he was alone.  He had walked up the incline to the pond with his head bent against the stinging wind and rain fighting against the equally stinging tears which he could not hold back. The weather seemed to try to discourage him in his efforts but he pushed on, his precious cargo bumping rhythmically against his back inside the rucksack, with each step. How easily a walk once joyous and uplifting could become so painful and morose.

He was glad of the weather though today, as any would be hikers or joggers appeared to have either taken another route or stayed at home. 

The pond was calm and clear despite the torrent of the waterfall joining it from higher up the cliff side, it's sound complementing the splash of the raindrops and the howl of the wind. Unwillingly, he felt his spirits rise as he stood at the water's edge, the rucksack now at his feet.

He held the urn high in the air and tilted it slowly, sprinkling the contents into the water, the breeze picking up some of the ashes and carrying them away high into the mountains, and beyond.