24th August – The Castle

I pictured high towers and echoing halls, but St. Celandine’s Watch was hardly taller than a cow shed. But what a marvel. Stone worn smooth by centuries of rain, moss softening every corner, and a doorway that seemed to stoop in greeting.

Maureen led the way, her stride brisk, as if she were unveiling a treasure. I trailed behind, letting my hand brush the cool stones, and felt their weight of years. Such a small place, yet it carried a largeness no map could measure.

We ate scones on the grass and watched a kestrel circle. I came home feeling oddly taller, as though I’d borrowed a little of the Watch’s stubborn strength.