I’m looking out the window in the tower, gazing at the green, rolling hills stretching as far as the eye can see. The clear, blue sky beckons me to walk in the light but I can’t move, transfixed by the beauty of this place.
The walls, thick forbidding stone, cold and rough to the touch, protection from enemies and the elements for hundreds of years. The stairs spiral up the turret, their steps worn down by people long dead.
From the stairway a corridor beckons as echoing footsteps break the stillness. Lining the corridor, suits of armour stand at attention, shadows of the men who wore them once. The guardians seem eerily real and there is a wary expectation that one of them might move.
The great room is at the end of the corridor where women in period costumes serve high tea. Guests enjoy the crackling fire, while they eat and drink in a room rich with history. The walls covered in tapestries and banners, swords and shields, pay homage to past generations. Minstrels make music and guests make merry as they become acquainted with each other.
The guest rooms are welcoming with big, old beds and a sitting area in front of the fireplace. After a long day the thought of a luxurious bath, complete with candles and wine, sounds like heaven.
This place where history awaits discovery and today is forgotten.