This passage forms part of Mr Hando's journey through the Vale of Usk, with a description of the windmill at Llancayo.

THERE is a splendid shell of a windmill at Llancayo, near the Usk-Abergavenny road (A471)in a great field which forms part of the 350 acre farmland of Mr. Evan Williams, of Llancayo Farm.

We examined the windmill within and without.

The walls are 2ft. 2in. thick, the diameter at ground level is 28ft, and this diminishes through the 56ft height in such a way as to produce an impression such as an observer receives on viewing a Doric column.

Skill of a high order lay behind the planning and construction of this graceful tower, with its cut—stone circles, each slightly wider that the circle above, each stone sloping slightly inwards, its brick-arched window heads, its two stone string courses, and its windows indicating the five floors of the tower.

At the summit of the tower, precariously perched, is a segment of a toothed wheel: another relic protrudes below the upper string—course.

Behind the mill, from pole to pole, extend the wires conveying electric power from Glascoed to Llancayo.

Said farmer Williams, ‘I often look at those wires and the windmill, and see them as symbol of the revolution that has taken place in the industry in such a short time.’

That is true, but by the beginning of this century the doom of the windmills and watermills could be foreseen, and soon the steam—driven mills, the steel rolls replacing the millstones, and the vast new mills in our ports had rendered the old mills uneconomic.

That is why we in Monmouthshire look with delight on our surviving watermills, some whose owners assure me that they have sufficient orders to justify ‘a seven—day week and a 24-hour day.’

Llancayo windmill was a tower or ‘smock’ mill, in shape similar to a rustic’s smock.

At the summit the ‘cap’ was arranged to support the shaft and the sweeps and to rotate so that the sweeps faced the wind.

This type of mill appeared first in the sixteenth century, but as I have been unable to find a picture of its sweeps and other equipment I cannot date it.

Signs of a fire are evident throughout the interior.

Of the varied stories given me, the most probable tells how on a still summer morning the miller went to market leaving his sweeps coupled to the gearing.

A sudden fierce wind sent the sails rotating rapidly, the red hot coupling and brakes ignited the timber and the mill was a flaming torch before the miller returned.

On that calm silvery afternoon a great peace brooded over Trostrey hill top.

The trees west of the church, in pale-green leaf, held choirs of birds, whose music deepened the sense of peace; the magic.

'Here,' I thought, 'in this remote country church, our people came to worship in the days of Elizabeth and Cromwell, of Marlborough and Nelson.

Here during the dark hours of the Battle of Britain they prayed.'

It is worth climbing Trostrey hill if only to see the churchyard cross.

While the cross itself is modern (for our ancient crosses were destroyed in 1643) the steps are original, and remind us of the part played by crosses in village life.

At the wayside crosses engagements were made, and bargains struck; from the churchyard crosses the news was proclaimed every Sunday morning; processions ended at the cross, loved ones were buried near it, and on the feast days it was festooned with flowers.

In some instances the cross is older than the church, and always it holds a place of deep reverence in the hearts of the village folk.

It is for bidden to remove or damage this, one of the most sacred of our ancient landmarks.

Inside the church I found a wall—tablet inscribed in memory of Captain Charles Hughes of Trostrey who fought ‘for his Majestie against ye rebelles’ and died, aged 57, in 1676.

This is an extract from Hando’s Gwent, Volume One, edited by Chris Barber.