Working in the mill is a pretty noisy existence. Every machine has its own sound, rhythm and quirks, and even through ear defenders (which are a must!) I’ve quickly come to learn their individual signatures. When things go wrong, often the first indicator is a change in the sound of a machine - a subtle difference in the way this gear hums, or that drive belt sings. Even as I write this, in my usual spot for blog posts stood at Clint, our comb, my watch has just given me a rather aggressive notification to remind me to wear ear protection as the sound level has exceeded 90 decibels. I’m reliably informed that 30 minutes at this level can cause temporary hearing loss and permanent damage, but don’t worry, trusty ear defenders are definitely being worn.

It’s fair to say then that we’re used to things being loud in mills.

Which is why silence in a mill feels so wrong.

I visit a lot of old mills. Some are well-documented, others barely known. Sometimes I’m there to salvage machinery - carders, winders, steamers, twisters - whatever we can give a second life to. Sometimes I just want to see them, to walk through the empty spaces and try to piece together what once happened there. There’s something magnetic about them. And haunting.

Take Bottoms Mill in Holmfirth, where I rescued some sample carders and a winder. Or Tower Mills in Dukinfield, where we found an old assembly winder and a steamer. Then there’s North Vale, also near Holmfirth, where we reclaimed twisters and a cone winder. Each one was different. Each one quiet.

That’s what gets me the most - the stillness. You walk through a spinning room and the fibre is still threaded up, as though someone had popped out for a cuppa and meant to be back in five. The belt hasn’t been unhooked, the aprons haven’t been run to empty. They just… stopped. No winding down. No fanfare. Just silence.

And it’s not peaceful, not really. It’s eerie. Like the walls are holding their breath, waiting for someone to flick the switch and start the rhythm again. You can almost hear it - the imagined click of the clutch engaging, the hum of rollers, the quiet rattle that always meant that one bearing needed a bit more grease.

I’ve visited mills all across Europe. Each one has its own strange, stubborn atmosphere. I remember one in Italy where they hadn’t even turned the power to the spinning frame off - it was still humming quietly, waiting, as though someone might come back and flick it into gear. Then there was a mill in Greece, where the former owner’s son had tried to save the place, single-handedly. He was desperate for the machinery to find a good home. Some of it did. Some of it didn’t. The truth is, this stuff costs a fortune to move - let alone restore. You’re talking cranes, trucks, days of dismantling, and then weeks or months of careful rebuilding. These are mammoth machines, built of old iron and sharp tolerances. They were made to last - but they’re not exactly portable.

Every time I chat with my friend Daniel of London Cloth Company, we end up reminiscing. Over a quiet pint, we tell stories of the mills we’ve visited - quite often sat in his own Elvet Mill, which he rescued from near collapse just a few years ago. We read the old accounts of mills that once ran, laugh at the foibles and follies of the staff there, and piece together their lives from the ledgers they left behind. There’s something wonderfully human about it - and something a bit heartbreaking too.

I find it deeply moving, in a way I didn’t expect when I started rescuing these machines. There’s a fragility to it all. Mills often operate on a knife-edge - one bad season, one cancelled contract, one rising energy bill too many - and that’s it. Years of skill, heritage and craft can vanish almost overnight. I’ve seen it happen. These buildings hold all that history in their walls, and when the machines go quiet, it’s not just the sound that’s lost. It’s stories. Livelihoods. Community.

Of course, there’s hope, too. There’s something deeply satisfying about bringing these machines back to life - fitting a new bearing, rewiring an old motor, watching it spin again after years of stillness. We’ve got machines in our mill now that were pulled out of places like these, coaxed back into motion one careful step at a time. It’s not easy - it takes patience, stubbornness, and usually a fair bit of swearing - but it’s always worth it.

Because every machine we save is a small act of defiance. A vote of confidence in the value of making things slowly, carefully, and well. And in an industry that can feel so precarious, where so many mills have fallen quiet, that matters more than ever.

Noise in a mill isn’t just noise. It’s life. It’s motion. It’s proof that something is being made - that someone still cares. And for as long as I’m able, I’ll keep chasing that sound. One rescued machine at a time.