So, those of you who know me pretty well are aware of how much I love to travel. Specifically, to the land my heart calls home: Britain. More specifically, Scotland. I've been fortunate enough to travel to Britain about 5 or 6 times in my lifetime thus far, and I don't think 100 more trips would satiate my appetite for those adorable accents, tasty cider, gorgeous landscapes, rich history and, oh, that weather.
Now, most people around here get all kindsa' grumpy when the clouds move in and obscure that sun that we enjoy so much of here. Not me. Cloudy weather is when I look and feel my best. Throw in some drizzle, and I'm in heaven. And if there's fog, too, color me ecstatic. Why? Because I can load up a piping CD in my car (although chances are that there's already one in the hopper), breathe deep, and imagine myself in the midst of the Highlands. And given my budget and number of allotted vacation days, that's about as close as I'm getting for the moment.
Perhaps part of my ability to enjoy this type of weather hinges upon having a solid visual in my head of just where I'd be and what I'd be doing, if I were in fact, just outside of Inverness or on one of the Hebridean isles. The question of who I'd be with changes from time to time (always some sweet handsome man in a kilt, though, dontcha know), but I always know exactly what the hill looks like that I'd be climbing, and what treasure awaits me at the pinnacle. I had a moment of creative inspiration back in the day, and tried to paint a picture with words of the place that came to life in my head, and has lived there ever since. I don't know if it'll work, but on the off-chance that it evokes any vision at all, you're welcome to join me there. And once I win the lottery, I'll be chartering a jet and taking everyone there in person (so I guess you'd better hope this version works for the moment).
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Castle Come Alive Again
The sun
is hidden beneath a thin sheet of gray clouds
That have just finished washing the land with their
Tiny drops of rain.
The heather is beginning to shake off this mist, and
The air is clean.
The color of the heather on the rolling and rocky hills is
Muted for the lack of sunshine.
In the midst of it all is a tall, gray, stony castle.
The hill on which it makes its stand is steep and
There is a trace of an old footpath,
Now covered with delicate green plants.
I make my way up the path, and imagine that
I am a lady or perhaps a princess who is searching for her
Prince Charming, and he resides in this castle.
The path leads to a looming, wooden, arched door,
Strengthened with black iron hinges and bolts.
I summon my strength and ease the now rusted door knocker up and
Let it fall, echoing its announcement of a visitor
To all the corridors in the castle.
I know full well that there is no one within to
Answer my inquiry.
The door is stubborn, but opens after a forceful nudge.
I enter the dark corridor, and cautiously pass under
The portcullis that hangs above, seemingly ever at the ready
To abruptly stop an entrance or an exit with its
Heavy, pointed jaws.
However, the chains that control this powerful vise are
Long ago rusted and solidified in their positions.
The cobblestones that once supported the feet of
Kings and queens, princes, dukes, ladies and
Probably even peasants come meekly to seek amnesty,
Are now worn from feet and rain, and they are
Broken in places.
I find a staircase leading up,
And because my curiosity is nearly insatiable,
I ascend the worn granite steps.
The steps wind around and around,
Brightened occasionally by a small window
That looks out on the kingdom,
And I wonder how often a servant
Spotted an enemy approaching, or
Perhaps a friend, and
Ran down the steps, not so worn then,
To inform the reigning king or lord of
The approaching visitor.
I reach the top of the stairs and
Enter a long, dark corridor.
The walls are cold, with large stones
Slightly touched with moss and mildew.
They are refreshingly unmarred,
For this castle has not yet been discovered by
People who must write graffiti in these
Strong walls that have protected many.
The cobwebs stretch across the arrow slits
Through which many soldiers have fended off
Individual enemies, or unwanted "friends."
There are many small niches where perhaps a
Small child hid from an angry father
Seeking an explanation of the tears
On his sister's face.
Another staircase invites me to satisfy my curiosity.
I must, and I ascend this short, straight staircase,
It opens into a room where perhaps a feast was held,
Or perhaps was a bedroom for the fair lady of the house.
The walls that once displayed banners
Bearing coats of arms are now bare and cold.
Slight imperfections in the mortar are now
Beginning to show.
I curtsy to the memories of
The royalty that once filled the room with excitement
And descend the stairs.
I take a different route through the winding corridors and
Staircases and end up in a courtyard.
A well, now dry and fortified,
Stands in the center of the yard,
And I can fairly see the old woman
Drawing water with which to
Cook the day's meals.
I turn on this deserted yet alive place, and
Find yet another winding staircase.
This one leads to a tower, where there is still
A fragment of the pole that once so proudly displayed
The flag of this fair castle.
I look at the walls of this strong fortress,
And let the breeze whisper incantations of
A civilization long past into my mind.
P.N.
2-28-86