Because there are few things we can be sure of….

Middlemost Cottage (Part One)

on February 15, 2013


This is the tale of Middlemost Cottage. You may find it hard to believe, unlikely or pure fantasy; that is your prerogative. I am telling it to you because I fear that the story will die with me. Before my faculties totally desert me, I shall try to explain Middlemost and how I fell under her spell.

Being rather easily tired these past few months, I shall write a little when the light and arthritis allow. I beg your indulgence as I stumble through the account that follows.

Let’s begin at the beginning.

This is where the story starts as far as records go. I reproduce them below to allow you to see what was written by better educated men than I.

Further, three miles northwards, having left Wilson at Rhine Villa to tend his injured mare, we passed by a small dwelling on our right-hand side. It had about it an air of stillness and, despite only having ridden a short time, I was inclined to rest in that place for a while.

“That’s Middle O’Mist Cottage, sir,” said Tom. “It’s hard on a man to pass without stopping by, such as it is.”

l, for myself, could not observe any outward strangeness in the little cottage. It was in a cheerful and pleasant locality with a splendid view towards the Western hills. We continued apace and on fully passing by the dwelling I was wont to turn and remain there, perhaps to spend a day or a night within.

 Aitken, J. H. (1898). An Artist Abroad: Observations on South Australia

Adelaide: Ridley Educational Society


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