The Windmill on Wimbledon Common
Recently, on a short trip to London, I set out to walk to Wimbledon Common. Somehow it felt extremely ‘English’ trudging across the pavement, uphill of course, with a light rain on my face. I thought I had a pretty good chance of blending in with the locals, until I got to the Common proper and found it to be a large expanse of what in Australia we would call bushland. There were dirt paths leading into deep pockets of tangled undergrowth, anonymous rustling in the fallen leaves, shadows moving to either side. Not exactly appealing to someone who grew up among Australia’s poisonous wildlife and retains an overactive imagination.
I plunged into the Wimbledon desert. From time to time someone would pass by on a bicycle. From various places, dogs of all shapes and sizes crossed my path, intent on their own purpose, and usually with a fearsome-looking British matron following them. I wish I could rent a dog and join his company. However, neither the canines nor the humans acknowledged my presence. Not daring to ask for directions out of this disorienting maze, I began to contemplate a future living off the land on Wimbledon Common.
Suddenly, after tireless miles, I emerged into a small open space that led, of all things, to a rather beautiful old wooden windmill. Its four white sails spoke of order and coherence in the aftermath of the unspeakable doom of the Common. I shelled out the £1 entrance fee and entered the rotunda. Watching a promising “video room,” I trudged in, absurdly grateful to sink into a chair and watch glassily as the miller explained in intricate detail the workings of the windmill machinery. At any moment, I expected a cropped shot showing John Cleese tied to one of the sails, spinning faster and faster. Surely there had to be a comic twist to the presentation!
I stayed for two performances and came off a semi-authority on sails, poles, wood teeth, fantails, sprockets, and the like. Wimbledon Windmill had been built in 1817. I learned that up to 10,000 of these “giants of the country” once stood on English soil. Longfellow’s words about the newly acquired windmills echoed in my mind:
“Behold! I am a giant,
High up here in my tower;
With my granite jaws I devour
corn, wheat, and rye, and grind them into flour.”
More importantly, I felt a renewed hope that somewhere such simplicity might still exist. The sight of the towering white sails against the gray sky struck a chord deep in my being. Perhaps it was the silent power that emanated from them. After all, they came from a time before the constant roar of industrialization; they simply turned their faces into the fickle wind and turned, a pure, almost exultant expression of freedom!
On my way to New York on May 16, an article in The Guardian caught my eye. He indicated that 88 new wind farms have been agreed in the United Kingdom (9 of them offshore) and 171 are in the planning stage. Britain’s largest wind farm will be at Whitelee, south of Glasgow. This complex of 140 turbines will provide enough power for 200,000 homes.
I felt a unique happiness. From the 12th century to the 21st, the ancient harmony between man and machine has not been forgotten after all.