Stockwith Mill is family owned and run. We made the bold decision in 2020 to leave our city lives behind after 20 years and move here to start a new adventure with our young son and Molly the collie.
The Mill had previously been run as Tea rooms for many years but had been converted back into a private house in 2017. As soon as we drove over the bridge and caught sight of the Mill we absolutely fell in love and could see the beauty, charm and amazing potential.
We are so thrilled to be taking this property onto its next chapter, we have some ideas for long term plans and we will be utilising our many years of project management and building skills, it is just the beginning and we are excited.
We wanted to be one of those couples that actually gave it a shot, as my dad said to me, ‘at times you may fall, but I think you’re also going to fly at this darling….’.
I hope this has given you an insight into us and our property and we look forward to welcoming you soon.
Stockwith Mill, is a non-operational water-driven corn mill and attached house of around C18 and is located on the east bank of the River Lymn, one mile north-east of Hagworthingham village. The vertical water wheel sits directly in the river, where the water flow is controlled by a sluice.
The first record of the Mill is the listing in the Domesday book (1086) and it was valued at 1 shilling. The mill and dwelling then appear on the first edition Ordnance Survey (OS) map of 1888, however there is a record of a mill on the site in the early C15 where it is mentioned in the will of John Copuldyke of Harrington.
Alfred Lord Tennyson the famous Poet Laureate was born in 1809 in Somersby in Lincolnshire, the fourth child of George Clayton Tennyson and Elizabeth Fytche daughter of the Vicar of St James Church, Louth.
‘The Miller’s Daughter’ a poem thought to be connected with Stockwith Mill is significant in that it brought Tennyson’s poetry to the attention of Queen Victoria who was later to make him Poet Laureate.
It is the miller’s daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles at her ear:
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle
About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.