From a May 1985 Vineyard Gazette article by Howard W. Young:

I first saw Fulling Mill Brook when I was barely eight years old. I couldn’t figure out why it was called “fulling” when it wasn’t at all full and, as a matter of fact, was just quietly meandering through a lot of ferns and weeds on its way to Upper Chilmark Pond.

It was much later when I learned that the word “fulling” derived from a method of treating woolen cloth with fuller’s earth and fuller’s teasels and that the Vineyard’s first such mill was built alongside that brook in 1682.

Almost 60 years ago, I was more interested in the old farmhouse that had so recently burned, leaving only the basement foundation and a towering pile of chimney bricks that stand to this day. The old barns, stone walls, grape arbors and rhododendron bowers fascinated me as I hiked up from the brook to the ridge line that offered views of much of the South Beach and Noman’s Land.

My grandfather, George P. Hart, had purchased the 69 acres from Cornelius R. Lothrup in a rather hurried transaction after some months of negotiation. One night a kerosene stove ignited an old wooden beam, and soon, one thing leading to another, the house was gone before help could do any good. That was enough for Mr. Lothrop.

The next morning, he pedaled his bicycle 17 miles down-Island, strode into my grandfather’s house and said, “The property’s yours.” The two signed some papers, and the ex-owner was off, to the best of my knowledge, never to return to the Vineyard.

Grampa George loved the place. He used to go up often in the afternoons and tramp through the ferns, following the course of the brook from its little earth-and-wooden culvert near the Middle Road to the massive stone bridge near the South Road. He also liked to climb the big granite boulder near the old farmhouse that was covered with bushes and had a little bench on top where you could rest and contemplate nature. It was so overgrown that no one could see you from the ground, and that was why we always called it the lovers’ hideaway.

Unfortunately, the little love nest is gone now, along with the barns and other outhouses which for years withstood the ravages of time. The barns had housed some elegant carriages. One two-wheeled speedster always took my fancy. But I guess my grandfather sold them because one year when I returned for summer vacation, they were no longer there. Shortly thereafter, the roofs began caving in and pretty soon there weren’t any barns or outbuildings except for one, an old screened-in gazebo near Fulling Mill Brook. Later a niece of mine was to turn it into a livable if minuscule cottage that is still there.

There used to be a beautiful wooden gate, painted green, that opened onto the Middle Road. Some hunters must have charged through it with their vehicle because we had it locked that fall with a big “no hunting” sign attached to it and when we next looked, there it was, its bright green boards smashed and broken on the ground with new tire tracks leading into the property.

All the time the Harts, and later the Youngs, owned the property, there never was any objection to people enjoying it, walking through it, horseback riding, even camping on it. Just no hunting, please.

Before it got so overgrown, a visitor could pick grapes, peaches and pears and stroll up to the ridge where an old stone wall marked the boundary. The view was exceptional. Now it will take some brushcutting, but it is still there.

“It’s like being in Vermont,” Bob would say, admiring the wide variety of beech, oak, maple, birch and cherry that he found there, and it did seem at those times as though the ocean must be miles away rather than just across the road.

Sometimes there were more people living off Fulling Mill Brook than anyone could identify. One evening, returning from a movie down-Island, we saw a young man head into the property. We turned in to find out who he was, but when he saw our headlights, he started running. He was a gazelle, so fast did he cover the ground, and our car could not keep up with him on those ruts. He must have run all the way through and out the Middle Road.

But no harm was done to the property by those young people who camped there at various times. Some even gave us presents, like firewood delivered to our door.

Nor do I suspect that anything but good will come to the property now that Chilmark has assumed ownership, leaving it open to lovers of nature, people who will be able to amble through it in peace and tranquility, observing its beauty and its quietude and maybe even thinking that somehow they have ended up in Vermont!

Compiled by Alison L. Mead