Old Mills is the old name for Byron's Pool, a local nature reserve just outside Cambridge. It takes Byron's name from the story that the poet used to swim here during his student days at Cambridge. Well, so did many other people and, other than a few quickly fading ripples on the surface of the river, he left no mark here, not even a mention in his poetry.
Earthworks and pits associated with the watermill which once stood here, on the other hand, can still be traced on the ground and the place was also mentioned in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. It seems a shame that the name Old Mills is virtually unknown these days.
Autumn has come to some trees here while others still green, taking advantage of what little protection is afforded by the river valley, which is barely a blemish on this flat landscape.
The turbulent little stream, which has been created to allow fish to pass up-river beyond the weir, is always a favourite haunt of mine. I can't resist slowing down the shutter speed to see what shows up in the rushing waters.
The green weed-covered pond, bejewelled with yellow leaves, was once a fish-pond associated with the mill. Fish that were caught in the millstream were placed in the ponds to provide a source of food during the long winter months.
Even this single twig is uncertain about whether it's time for Autumn yet.
This may be the first time I've ever used the little built-in flash in my camera. And I'm not really sure what inspired me to take a few shots with it on this particular day. Anyway I quite like the end result - though all the other shots I took with it were quickly deleted.
The somnolent River Cam loiters reflectively above the weir, wondering whether or not to take the plunge.
A solitary red leaf on a carpet of yellows and browns. The wind is becoming chill, the rooks are flying to roost, my bicycle is waiting locked up to the fence and I must make my way home.