Two 'Romeo and Juliet's, both alike in dignity

Our friends Mark and Mary invited us to join them at an open-air production of Romeo and Juliet. It was  at Whitwell on Saturday night. 

We were looking forward to it when two days later, our friends Mark and Adri also invited us to an outdoor Romeo and Juliet. It was at Hitchin on Friday night. 

Their daughter Thea had made the scenery and had enjoyed working with a vivacious, inclusive and green theatre company. However, neither Nigel nor I could face two open air productions of the same play back-to-back, so regretfully we turned down the second invitation. 

On Saturday, we went along with Mark and Mary to The Living Theatre, Whitwell's Romeo and Juliet (which as I write is still showing). It was an enchanting venue with fields and woods lit by fairy lights. The acting was excellent, with Juliet and Mercutio particularly strong. The production was beautifully imagined with gorgeous Elizabethan cosumes in striking colours. The performance required the audience to walk through several beautiful twilight settings. The sets used natural wood frames and lengths of fabric very effectively  to create both a ballroom and also a bedroom with balcony. In the background I could hear long-tailed tits and glimpse the edge of a badger sett.

On the train to London next day, I texted Adri, saying we were sorry to have missed Thea's production. Could she please send pics. The photos came through very slowly due to poor signal, but even before they resolved, I recognised the colours of the costumes from last night. This solved the mystery - Whitwell could loosely be described as in the Hitchin area. We had been at Thea's production after all and admired the great scenery she made without even knowing it was hers. 

Which is good as it would have been a terrible shame to miss such a wonderful production.

Photos courtesy of the Osborns

Christopher Nolan's Odyssey

At war within me is always the pedantic Latin grammar teacher versus the creative writer and maker.

This battle came into sharp focus a couple of weeks ago when with my husband and some members of my adult Latin class I went to watch Christopher Nolan's massive film, The Odyssey.  Delightfully we went to see it at our local cinema, also entitled The Odyssey.

I appreciated that the book is of huge length and Nolan had to omit some episodes. I was fine with the American accents. After all, the original was written by Homer, not Chaucer, Shakespeare or Dickens.  

I liked that he tried to shoehorn some meaning about 'breaking Zeus's law' which he reinterpreted as 'do as you would be done by'.

BUT what tickled up the inner pedant in me was where Nolan filmed an episode and left out some bits. Like when Polyphemus the Cyclops asked Odysseus his name and Odysseus replied 'Nobody', so later, when the other Cycopes asked Polyphemus,' Who has hurt you?' he would reply 'Nobody' and they would all shrug and go about their business.

Or when Hermes appears and tells Odysseus about the holy moly herb he would need to defeat Circe.

In each case, they were missing and I wanted to yell, 'You're missing out a good bit.'

Does this mean my inner pedant is triumphing over the artist in me?

Later in the week, I had lunch with a friend and her baby. Apparently, when my friend reads to her tiny girl, she grows indignant when her mother misses a bit. In common with many small children, she always wants the whole well-known tale complete and unaltered.

I feel this vindicates me. It shows that after all, I'm in touch with my inner child, not my inner pedant.

Greenbelt Festival and a bag of poo

Each year we reunite with our tribe at the fabulous Greenbelt festival. This year, our friend Ster saved a space for us and for our friends the Osborns and their group. As they arrived a day late, the space had healed up somewhat, with other campers pressing in from all sides. As we set off into the festival we wondered how the Osborns would squeeze their large family tent in. 

After they arrived, we ran into them on site and they explained. 

'We moved your tent. Not far. Just a few feet.'

What!?!

It's a bit like hearing somebody went in your bedroom when you weren't there, so I swiftly did a mental check. Yes, I had stowed my dirty clothes in a bag. No I hadn't left anything personal lying around. Phew.

Then I remembered a certain bag which we'd left just outside the tent. 

Oh no.

When we got back at night, I checked and the bag was still there. The Osborns had moved it along with the tent. When they returned and joined us for a glass of wine, I felt the need to explain.

'When we arrived, there was sheep poo all over the area, so I used a plastic bag to pick it up. Then I was going to bin it, but Nigel wanted to compost it, but he never got round to it. And that is why there is a big bag of poo just outside our tent.'

'We did note it,' said Mark, 'But we decided not to comment.'

In some ways, I wish I hadn’t explained. For many years the Osborns would have puzzled over the mysterious bag of poo which the Harveys appeared to have brought to a festival with them.

Photo at top of piece courtesy of Mark Osborn.

Photo at bottom, mine.

August at home

August is the teachers' holiday month. It's the opportunity to visit family and friends in other locations. Most years, our feet don't touch the ground in August.

But this year we walked St Cuthbert's way at the end of July and I squeezed in a visit to my ancient dad in Cornwall, then I got grounded. 

A steroid injection into my creaky hip meant I had to take it easy and avoid exercise. 

And what a pleasure it has been. 

I ticked off little domestic tasks from taking up a pair of trousers and mending a bracelet, to making chutney and jam.

There were also treats like Chip's barbecue-cum-solar-eclipse, and like having Rosie round and catching up with Carol and Carole.

And then we were able to be fully present for two major life events: the funeral of our lovely friend, Nick, and the much anticipated wedding of wonderful Steve and Elaine, at both of which Nigel gave a speech and for each of which there was time to prepare and debrief properly. 

Only thing we really missed was our summer visit to Pascoe in Edinburgh, but we'll catch him later.

Maybe I'll need an injection in my hip next August too.

St Cuthbert's Way – Lost and Found

Walking a long distance path requires discipline. One should bring neither too much nor too little - reaching the shops before they shut can be tricky. Reaching any shops at all can be tricky.

Staying in a different hotel/B&B each night means one never unpacking fully - something could be left behind. We utilise packing pouches to make it easy to find what we want in our cases.

So when we arrived on Holy Island for three nights at the Lindisfarne Hotel it was delightful to unpack our clothing into drawers and tuck our cases away. 

In fact, in the chilled island atmosphere I relaxed a little too much. In the morning Nigel said 'Where's the big water bottle?'

And I said 'Where's my hand bag?'

I had left the bottle under a bench overlooking the sea where we had been watching grey seals fishing and eider duck and mergansers bobbing past, and I had left my handbag in the pub where we had dinner. 

Somebody had public-spiritedly disposed of the plastic water bottle, but the handbag was there waiting for me.

It was a luxury to be on Holy Island where people kept my handbag safe for me and even more of a luxury to be staying in one place, meaning we could actually go back to retrieve it.

Below is something I FOUND. On our wall at home is a photo signed by Fenwick Lawson - it shows his extraordinary sculpture (carved from a diseased elm) of St Cuthbert.  We bought the picture early in our married life, when we were both working for Durham University, and fell in love with Lawson's carving. Although it has hung in every home we have had, I had stopped seeing it really. But there, in the grounds of Lindisfarne Priory, was that much loved face again. My heart leapt when I saw the full size cast of Fenwick Lawson's sculpture, conveying as it had done all those years ago in Durham, the presence and gentleness of the saint. Home at last - journey's end for both ourselves and Cuthbert.

We attended services each day at ancient St Mary's or the more modern and Celtic St Cuthbert Centre. All were beautifully led by the hard-working chaplain, Kay, who was also covering for the vicar who was on holiday.

We explored not only the priory, but also the castle, with its Lutyens make-over and Gertrude Jekyll garden.

We saw amazing wildlife - marsh heleborine orchids and dark green fritillary butterflies were common in the dunes, not to mention the ubiquitous bunnies!

We saw fabulous birds including dunlin and ringed plover, and stood for several minutes while a swallow, only two metres away, serenaded us from a fence.

But one thing eluded me - it was the singing of the seals.

I had heard it once, a few years before - I'd been sketching and the rest of the family had gone off to swim on the other side of the island.  I'd heard an eerie wailing sound and followed it, walked across rocks to a tidal island surmounted by the remains of a little chapel, marked with a cross.  From there I could see sandbanks where dozens of seals were resting together and singing to one another 'OOOOOOOOooooooooooo.'

On the current trip we had already seen perhaps hundreds of grey seals but had not experienced the 'singing'. I had begun to wonder if I had dreamt it. Then on our very last morning, on our very last walk, there they were - once more on the same sandbank beyond chapel island, and the uncanny noise was carried to us faintly on the sea breeze. 

How lucky am I to hear seal song not once, but twice.

St Cuthbert's Way – The Pilgrims'Way

It was our last day of walking. Our final destination was Holy Island and it was now within sight. All we had to do was sprint across the A1, dash over the main Edinburgh-London rail line at an unmanned level crossing, then walk three or so miles along a causeway to Holy Island before the tide came in. 

Simples.

Opportunely, low tide was to occur in the morning, giving us plenty of time to get across. 

Nigel and I had both assumed there was only one causeway and that it was the one the cars used. 

But the guidebook indicated an alternative route. We could walk the three miles from shore to Island across a wilderness of sand and mud along a route marked out by poles, with the occasional refuge tower on stilts for those who get caught out by a rising tide. Enough water would remain that we would need to take our shoes and socks off. 

This was called the Pilgrims' Way.

I announced that I would like to go this way.

Nigel however spotted that the car causeway cleared sooner so we could set off half an hour earlier. The footing was firmer and we could stride on with no need to unboot.

We discussed it, and by the end of breakfast, as is not unusual with us, we had exchanged sides. For me, The Pilgrims' Way definitely looked more romantic, but I have a dodgy foot, so walking several miles barefoot was not an option. We should use the car causeway.

We set off down the road which formed the shared start to both routes and were overwhelmed by the press of nose-to-tail traffic on the narrow road. It seems the Holy Island of Lindisfarne has been featured in various TV shows and is now overly popular. It would be no pleasure to walk alongside so much traffic. We would take the Pilgrims' Way but keep our boots on as far as possible.

We followed the course set out by the poles and found ourselves walking on the bed of the sea, in a dreamy flatland of silt and sand. The grass at our feet was sea grass, and the mud was studded with cockle shells (a pilgrim emblem) and ornamented with the celtic interlace of ragworm casts. 

A woman coming in the opposite direction advised using our walking poles to test the depth of the water. In one place it had come up to her calves.

We had gone most of the way before we hit a chnnel deeper than our boots. In a way it was a relief to take them off and finish the walk like a proper pilgrim. Even more of a relief when Nigel kindly carried them for me. 

And finally, there we were on Holy Island, proud to have a little mud between our toes as we strolled on towards the priory where St Cuthbert had been Prior nearly 1,400 years ago. 

Journey's end - Lindisfarne Priory with Amanda and Mary, USA friends we made on the journey.

The end of St Cuthbert's Way was marked by a map on the wall and a set of wheelie bins, just in case we were getting above ourselves.

St Cuthbert's Way –Time machine

Today our walk was to carry us not just through space but through time. Highlights were to include a mysterious cup-and-ring marked stone from the Neolithic or Bronze Age, and St Cuthbert's Cave where, in the ninth century, the monks of Lindisfarne brought St Cuthbert's body to shelter it from Viking raids.

We delayed setting off from Wooler as we were not supposed to check in at our B&B in Fenwick before 4pm. We explored the town and suddenly the view of the low hill beyond brought back to mind  a magical holiday when our children had been much younger. 

Although it was at Easter, snow had fallen deeply and we had trekked out into the hills admiring the way the wind had sculpted the snow, and had made a gigantic anowball which it took all of us to roll along. In the afternoon we had returned to the house and I had painted a watercolour of the low hillside opposite. It was this view that had reawakened the vivid memory.

Before leaving Wooler, we visited the stately Anglican church once more.

 Simultaneously two memories gripped us. I recalled coming here for the Easter service that snowy holiday. Nigel remembered even further back, when his secondary school choir would come each Christmas to sing carols here. 

Before we had ever set off, we had already made our own personal journey through time.

St Cuthbert's Way –The Toughest Day

According to our guidebook and other walkers, the fourth day, between Yetholm and Wooler was the toughest, marching many miles through the hunched hills of the Cheviots. It was also forecast to get warm and sunny later, making walking more tiring.

Motivated to finish before the heat got to us, Nigel and I set off at 8.30 am and absolutely scooted along, barely stopping to check birdsong on Merlin, nor google-lens unfamiliar plants. 

On the two occasions when we found ourselves in a field with a very large  cow with only one udder and a ring through its nose, I moved even faster.

As a result, we were in Wooler by 2.30 pm - an earlier arrival than on any other day. My joints were aching, and we were both tired, but basically, we felt very pleased with ourselves. We had made light of the toughest day.

Until, that is, we sat down in the hotel and switched our phones on. Then we saw that, Nick, our friend of many years had died from the brain tumour which had laid him low. 

In Wooler church, we lit a candle for him. It really had been the toughest day after all.

St Cuthbert's Way - A Perfect Village

As we walked into Morebattle, the well-tended verges were dotted with picturesque flower beds. But by contrast, overhead, a thunderous roar announced the passing of a typhoon jet. 

We were hoping for lunch at the community-owned pub and set off down the main street. 

At once, a woman of similar age to us crossed the road to speak to us: 'Welcome to Morebattle. The women's loos are there. The men's are round there. Are you heading for the community pub? I'm afraid it's shut because it's a Monday. But you can get a lovely cup of coffee at the village shop, and they have a gazebo!'

'The village shop it is, then.'

We passed more flower beds and the quaintly named Teapot Street and Thimble Row, bought a vegan magnum each and consumed them amid the field geraniums and nasturtiums of the community shop's sunny back garden. 

And all would have been perfect if the war plane had not circled back and cleft the sky with thunder once more. Even the most peaceful and friendly village is touched by these troubled times.

St Cuthbert's Way - Swing that bridge

I had thought it a delight to have Pascoe with us on the first two days of our walk, until, that is we came to a plank bridge, high above a river. 

Pascoe was unable to resist causing turbulence. And I was unable to stop myself snapping 'At least wait until I'm off the bridge.'

Luckily there was a second, even longer and higher plank bridge, so when he began rocking it, I had a second chance to show that I am really a good sport after all. It's a shame then that I heard myself growling, 'Just stop it.!'

However, soon Pascoe will return to Edinburgh, and I will miss his boisterous sense of fun. You will be able to spot me lingering midway over a fragile bridge above a raging torrent, looking wistful.

St Cuthbert's Way - Setting out

We've set off on another long distance footpath. In my sixties, with various arthritic joints, I never know if I'll make it. And actually, last time, there's a gap in our walk of the Pembrokeshire coast while my legs took a couple of days to recover. 

So this time I voted for a shorter path - St Cuthbert's Way. It follows the life journey of the gentle and nature loving man who wanted to be a hermit, but was singled out by the depth of his faith and the breadth of his ability to become a prior. What I had failed to take account of was that the route lay through the mighty Cheviot Hills.

Pascoe joined us for the start and we explored the red sandstone ruins of Melrose Abbey with its ornate window tracery. We admired the sculpture of the bagpipe playing pig, and the inscription to the redoubtable mason, John Morrow. We were silent a moment at the spot where Robert the Bruce's heart was buried.

But then it was time to start. And what a start. The map contours were jostling eachother as we made the steep ascent to a saddle between two high hills. My hip was creaking and my mouth was whingeing. But after that harsh climb and descent it got gentler, often tracing the windings of the great river Tweed, accompanied by herons, sand martins and black-headed gulls. 

Like Cuthbert himself, we took time to admire the nature around us, and we saw orchids, bell flowers, butter bur and sneezewort amongst others, and foraged wild cherries raspberries, whitecurrants, bilberries and sweet cicely. 

But all that appreciation slowed us down so in the end we had to dash for the bus (which was to take us from the path to our B&B) and my creaky old hip proved it could do it, today at least.

A Little Diaspora

I haven’t blogged for a couple of months, but in that time, big changes have been afoot. 

I started this blog when I was faced with my children all leaving for university more or less simultaneously. (Pascoe had been at university comparatively nearby but was to travel much further for his PhD).

Right now we are growing accustomed to the fact that Pascoe has made his life in lovely Edinburgh, Perran has been living and working in Brussels for over a year and Carenza has recently departed on prolonged travels across the continent of Africa.

However, knowing we were all about to part for a while, we got together for a week in Cornwall, and met up with my brother and father too.

I believe that the weather was very mixed, but all I can remember is sunshine, spring flowers, taking long walks on the cliffs, and watching the younger generation surfing.

Each time I look back, the distilled memories become more idyllic – something to sustain me until we are together again.

SICILY: Last stop, earthly paradise

In the 1490s. Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain were in charge of Sicily. They pursued their policy of 'convert or get out' and the Jewish and Islamic populations were part absorbed and part exiled.

But before then, in the time of Norman rule of Sicily (11^th to 12^th centuries), there had been a dialogue between different cultures, producing some of the most stunning holy buildings.

In our last days in Sicily, we have visited Cefalu Cathedral, then Monreale duomo, near Palermo, plus the Capella Palatina. Roman-style cosmati floors are topped by acres of golden Byzantine mosaics and panels of Islamic geometric motifs.

The different elements combine not only visually, but m

ore importantly culturally.

In every way, these Norman churches are more beautiful than Ferdinand and Isabella’s policy to Make Spain Great Again.

SICILY: Sometimes it’s better not to know

I was sitting on the delightful terrace of our B&B, attempting to sketch Castelbuono and vaguely waiting for Nigel to return with the cuppa he had gone to make. After a while, there was still no sign and I decided he must have fallen asleep in our room. After all, we’d been for a long walk in the mountains earlier.

I went in, and he was just hanging out some damp clothing to dry.

‘I’ve been washing out some stuff to see me through until the end of the holiday.’

‘What took you so long?’

‘Ah, well, I washed it out in the bidet, but then the plug got stuck and I couldn’t dislodge it, so I had to bale out the bidet.’

‘Well it’s good you solved it. And you’re okay for clothes until the end of the week now. Wait. You say you baled out the bidet. What did you do that with?’

A long pause.

‘The tooth mug.’

I stared at him.

‘…obviously I cleaned it out thoroughly afterwards.’

And yet somehow I still don’t fancy using it.

SICILY: Saved by a landslide

At Villa Romana del Casale, 3,500m2 of the most fabulous Roman mosaics are on display, if only one can get there. Luckily for me, Nigel was prepared to hire a car, drive on the right and brave Sicilian roads and moreover Sicilian drivers. 

For me, it was like meeting a film star - to see in real life these 4th century works of astonishing quality which I have often used to illustrate my teaching work. 

I loved particularly the massive mosaic showing men catching big game such as tigers elephants and ostriches and putting them in cages to take back to the Collosseum.

What really strikes me most however, is the fact that the owner of such a magnificently rich and expertly crafted villa is now uncertain. It is possible it was Maximian, a kind of deputy Emperor alongside Diocletian. 

It just goes to show that the pomp of this world will fade away. Unless of course, like the mosaics themselves, it gets trapped under a landslide. For that is the way they were so miraculously preserved for centuries.

In any case, the scale and quality of the surviving work was overwhelming and as we neared the end Nigel said,

'Well I'm glad you enjoyed that, but I am now completely mosaiced out!'

(Top pic may depict Maximian)

SICILY: A Bad Atmosphere

 

In Castelbuono, we visited the eponymous castle. Belonging to the all-powerful Ventimiglia  family, the main attraction was said to be the chapel of Santa Anna, high on the top floor.

Nobody was there, but in we went – the first verdict was that it was amazingly complete, with stunning virtuoso stucco work. Lots of cherubs and swags. What a delight!

But as we looked closer, we noticed that amid the frippery a host of little goblin faces were grinning at us. Many of the cherubs were grotesquely formed. It was disturbing. Behind a grille at the altar was the mummified head of Santa Anna, mercifully hard to make out. At an upper window, something was rattling, as if trying to get in.

We looked around with increasing distaste and soon exited. While on the top floor, we used the public loos. Beneath us, at the foot of the castle, we could hear a cheery school trip entering. For me, this dispelled the tension, but Nigel seemed even more motivated to leave the castle and he set off down the stairs in quite a hurry. I had not realised he was so sensitive to atmosphere.

‘Oh dear, Nigel. Is it because that chapel creeped you out?’

He gave me a look but said nothing until we had re-emerged into the sunlight.

‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s because I used the toilet and it wouldn’t flush, and thirty school kids are now headed straight for the scene of the crime.’

Hmmm. Perhaps he’s not that sensitive after all.

SICILY: what you do see when you haven't got your binoculars

Just before we left for Sicily, I said, ‘I must pack my trusty binoculars’

However, I got distracted.

In the absence of binoculars, the Merlin birdsong-identification app was great in confirming the ID of noisy birds, such as Cetti’s warbler, the Sardinian warbler, the short-toed tree creeper and the serin.

However, with quieter birds, we were never entirely sure.

Were those five massive birds of prey circling together above the Madonie Mountains gryphon vultures? Probably.

Was that huge pale-coloured eagle a Bonelli’s eagle? Maybe.

Was that shy brown and grey mottled bird in the woods a wryneck? Plausibly.

Perhaps the only advantage of forgetting my binoculars is that I get to decide exactly what I saw. 

So yes then, I did see those particular species and I am delighted to have done so!

 

SICILY: Scary animals

Nigel and I were walking in the mountains of the Madonie Park and had several contretemps with farm dogs – I’m not good with big dogs that bark and snarl at me. And that description covered the third set of dogs we met. 

They were not close to a farmyard and

there was no owner about so we ended up pushing our way through thorny brush to get round them.

We also saw half a dozen small black pigs rootling in the under brush. I wasn’t sure

whether or these were wild boar so I googled. No, these were Sicilian black pigs and generally ran away from people.

However, apparently the area was also loaded with wild boar, up to 1.8 metres long which usually ran away, but sometimes turned aggressive.

Advice: ‘Slowly back away.’

‘It’s hard to back away,’ I said to Nigel, ‘When you’ve already fainted from terror.’

Through all my animal panics, Nigel was phlegmatic, tolerant with only a hint of

impatience.

As we neared the car, my mood improved, and in a pathetic fallacy (look it up) the sun came out too.

With the sun came a large number of massive grasshoppers, about 10cm long (Egyptian grasshoppers). If one got close, they launched suddenly into mid-air and rattled their four stiff wings.

‘Look, Nigel, look!’ But he just didn’t seem interested. Unless…

‘Nigel, you’re not scared of them are you?’

‘Let’s just say they can stay over there and I’ll stay over here, and then we will both be

happy.’

Obviously, when I was scared of farm dogs and wild pigs, Nigel was supportive and

helpful, so now that I had discovered his own Achilles’ heel, there was only one way to behave.

That’s exactly right – I taunted him mercilessly.

Why giant fennel really matters

In the ancient myth, Prometheus (a Titan), decides he will steal fire from the gods and bestow it upon humans. Inside a stalk of fennel, he transported a few embers and gave them to us. For humankind, it is a game-changer – we can stay up after dark, ward off wild beasts, warm our homes and cook our food.  For the gods, however, it was an outrage – Prometheus was banished to Tartarus, where every single day, an eagle came and pecked out his liver while he was fully conscious, only for it to grow back overnight.

It’s a story with deep resonances for western culture – for instance, may an artist or poet be likened to Prometheus when they bestow their insights on us ordinary mortals?  It also feeds into the narrative that artists must suffer for their art.

But what has always bothered me is the little detail of the fennel stalk. The fennel I’ve cultivated in my garden or seen growing wild near the sea simply has not got stalks which would be capacious enough.

However, here in Sicily, fennel (finocchio) is one of the national plants.  And what fennel! It can be as much as ten feet tall and is an architectural shrub really. We even saw one guy who appeared to have the job of strimming fennel to stop it encroaching on the roads. The stalks on this giant fennel are an entirely different proposition and could easily accommodate a few embers, and maybe even a fire extinguisher to go with them.

Some might say the fennel stalk was not the most important part of that myth…but it mattered to me.

SICILY: He marched me up to the top of the hill

Turns out that on Easter Monday, everything is shut. Following the massive Sunday of Easter Masses and parades of saints' statues everyone is officially knackered. 

So it was a good day to be transferring between Enna, in the centre and Castelbuono in the Madonie National Park in the north. Or was it?

Before we left Enna, we had planned to explore the Lombardy Castle - a must see. But although, like a besieging army, we circled it, all gates were shut. The castle was having a day off.

 Instead, we climbed the nearby great rock where once Demeter and Kore (Persephone) had been worshipped. And we could see right across to Etna, smoking quietly from its snow-capped summit. Then, back down and into the car.

Next we parked at the historic hilltop town of Gangi. We climbed the steep slope but pretty much everything was shut, except the main church and (thankfully) the public toilets. Then, back down the picturesque narrow streets and back in the car. 

Finally on a whim we stopped beneath a hilltop castle built long ago by the powerful Ventimiglia family. The steep path up had once been broad and well paved, but now a thick growth of weeds had sprung up between the slabs. 'Looks like this is going to be shut, just like everything else today.'

But we kept climbing just for the heck of it. We passed a firmly shut ticket office, but still kept going. 

Finally, we were amazed to find the gate of the castle open. The ruins were not substantial, but they were certainly interesting to scramble about in.

At last persistence had been rewarded. Which is good as I don't think my knees could have managed even one more hill!