In a verdant field, dotted with sheep and ancient trees, stands a reddish-pink shell of a
castle, once resplendent with stone turrets and gothic arches and reputed to have been frequented by distinguished guests. Now, it has fallen into great decay and scaffolding towers above it. Daffodils on occasion emerge from the grounds, but they do little to mask the gloom.
As dusk fell, the unreachable and rayless void in the centre of the castle seemed to my mind, abhorrent and I recalled the ghastly tales of the Earl of Lonsdale and his wicked ways.
My curiosity was piqued as the emerging shadows caused a shudder, and I began to fumble with the locked gate to no avail. I noticed a crumbling ledge beneath the thick outside wall and cautiously stepped onto it, hands twisted into the tiny cavities caused by weathering and body pressed flat against the stone.
My elevation was insufficient to peer into the murky castle grounds, but I raised my camera so it could look where I could not, and what it saw, was this: boarded up windows, overgrown tangles of insipid plants and warning signs remarking on danger, so much danger.
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wintrmute and I visited a mausoleum, two churches and a castle, which had even more scaffolding than the last. Details of these have already begun to fade in my mind, but fragments that I do remember include strawberries for breakfast; the suggestion of sticking glow-in-the-dark stars to the mausoleum; being amused at the similarity of our toothbrushes; imagining the Swallows and Amazons still on one of the little islands on the lakes; the first night we spent in Arkham - a moonless night with a full array of stars.
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