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New
Grist for an Old Mill
"Best flour by a dam site"
Excerpts from Article -- Summer
98 issue of LONDON'S CITY LIFE Story by Holly McWilliams Photography by
Rachel Lincoln
The blink-and-you'll-miss-it
town of Arva, just a little north of the urban brawl we know as
Masonville, is the backroads equivalent of a whistlestop on the
railway, remarkable for its lone stoplight, and its small dam
with the Medway Creek spilling over it. It's also home to this
large, silverclad mill that has loomed large and unswerving over
the Medway's banks since 1819.
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Yessirree-bob, when you come to Arva,
you definitely feel you have left the city. But have you? As London's
development sprawls northward, the mill may soon be wearing suburbia
like a long, clackety coat. Already, an exclusive enclave of fancy,
three-garage homes is tucked away at the mill property's shoulder,
clinging tenuously to the pastoral vistas of Arva. "In the next
10 years," says the mill's jocular owner Bill Matthews, "they estimate
10,000 more people living between Hyde Park Sideroad and Adelaide,
and Fanshawe Park Road and Sunningdale." In spite of this, it's
hard to imagine the Arva mill going anywhere, or ever losing its
charm. Bill Matthews has a plan to keep it so.
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A first visit to Arva Flour Mill's
tiny retail outlet catapults the visitor back in time; it's like
a jumbly general store with buggies pulled up in the dusty yard
in front of its barn-red, clapboard exterior. Inside, two-inch thick
plank floors creak underfoot and there's an unpretentious backdrop
of white-washed wood. A small fortress of flour takes centre stage.
Hard, soft, unbleached white, and whole wheat, in thick, ungimmicky
paper bags. Specialty flours, such as spelt (a trendy ancient grain,
and "the mother grain of today's wheat," says Matthews), amaranth,
quinoa, and semolina can be found here and there. Great sacks of
feed for horses, and dog and cat food line the perimeter. Jams,
jellies, honey, dried beans, rice and all manner of baking ingredients--tinned
yeast, dried fruit, spices and herbs, all packaged bulk-style--are
stacked on wooden shelves. An office to one side houses a cluttered
desk, and a filing cabinet with a coffee maker on top. In the corner
sits an old-fashioned clawfoot safe; the combination is scrawled
on its door that gapes permanently open. As if on cue, an amiable,
barrel-chested millhand in a plaid flannel shirt ambles in from
the noisy millroom for coffee, grumbling about no doughnuts, and
what in hell is he going to eat for breakfast anyway. (It's 10 a.m.)
Wilfred has been working at the mill since before Matthews took
over--"26 years, come October...I come with the place," he grins.
A solidly male environment, this--full of guffaws and good-natured
ribbing.
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The old-fashioned schtick aside, evidence
that the mill is courting the urban retail market is scattered throughout
the store. Piled haphazardly on the floor and on another high shelf,
for instance, are boxes of the latest Black & Decker bread machine--a
perfect fit for the mill, and very nineties. A collection of dried
pasta line the shelves, some made with spelt; then, there's birdseed
and birdfeeders. At the front of the store, a small display features
the current groove in sleep accessories--the buckwheat-hull pillow.
The hulls themselves are sold in bulk for the do-it-yourselfer.
But the final tip-off that you're in the here-and-now are the better-quality,
souvenir T-shirts and sweats emblazoned with the mill's clever logo:
"Best flour by a dam site." Heh-heh. City folks eat this stuff up.
In the background, the constant whirr of the turbines reminds you
this is not just another pretty--and obsolescent--old mill. For
the most part, it operates pretty much the way it did when Clarence
Scott bought if from Jacob Hawkins back in 1917. "We still run half
the mill on water power--the rollers, the choppers, the mixers,
the elevators," says Bill Matthews. "And a 50-horsepower electric
motor mills the flour, because it makes a more consistent product."
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