Where the humped shadow on the wall moves past the coolhouse door, and the rough concrete and worn paintwork groan in their memories of better days, there is a slight cold wind like a draught of thin bitter ale – the sibilant gush-and-trickle of the hose to churnwell water, making a perpetual foam of little climbing bubbles as it strikes the smooth surface of drifting liquid.
The walls have sunk into a thoughtful greenness, streaked by the dribbles of caught washed water from the row of shining pails and milkpails tipped neatly along the sunstruck coolhouse wall There comes a freshness in this watery refuge – when the summer heat drives the steaming men to umbrage, this cold green house is welcoming.