Castles
One summer we decided to take a look at all the castles in Britain – not really practical. However, myself along with my three sons set out on a six-week jaunt to visit as many as possible. We surely had loads of fun, but two extraordinary things happened along the way. We started out on the south coast of England with a first visit to Pevensey then worked our way round westward and up into Wales.
Caernarfon Castle was our first really big and almost complete castle with many towers, rooms and displays. The staff has a set practice when closing. A bell rings continuously warning visitors to evacuate the premises. One member of staff is sent to each tower where they climb to the top and as they then descend, he or she locks all doors after shooing out the stragglers. In this way over a period of about thirty minutes the entire castle is secured. The guests are then ushered out the main gate and then it too is secured for the night. I was with my youngest son when we heard the bell. It took us about fifteen to twenty minutes to reach the courtyard where we saw crowds of people exiting through the main keep; my other two boys were nowhere to be seen. I sent the youngest to see if the lads were already out in the street. By the time he returned it was clearly closing time and only myself and a couple of workers remained. The Castilian came over to me and said, “I’m sorry, sir you’ll have leave now.”
“I’m not moving until I know where my boys are.”
“There’s no one in the castle, sir, all the doors are locked, you’ll have to leave.”
I stood my ground determined to go nowhere until I found my boys. With a sudden inspiration I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled very loudly. Sure, enough I was answered by my second oldest lad, who could whistle as loud as myself.
“Goodness, me,” exclaimed the Castilian. “There’s someone in the Queen’s Tower.”
If I hadn’t been so stubborn the boys would have had to spend a cold night locked in a castle tower.
The second unusual thing that happened on that same trip was at Brody Castle in Scotland. The manager of the campground suggested we visit the place. Brody Castle was at that time owned and operated by an order of monks. They were a little spooky but otherwise pleasant and accommodating. There were no guided tours, you merely paid a donation and wandered about unhindered. Somewhere on the third floor I found myself alone wandering through a somewhat Spartan room with unknown paintings on the wall. As if the devil himself was chasing him, my youngest came rushing into the room exclaiming, “Dad, Dad, I’ve found a dead guy.”
I mean, as if. “So, where’d you find him?”
He led me through a couple of rooms and stopped in front of a huge fireplace. There was of course no fire. Beside the grate on either side was a walk-in cupboard. Stephen opened one cupboard and pointed in. Unbelievably there in the depths of the dark closet lay the remains of a long dead person. I walked in and examined him; it was real enough. Moments later I found one of the monks and reported the find.
“Oh,” said the monk, “it’s no problem, he was there when we moved in.”
The castle in now owned by the Trust and they have removed the unknown sleeper.
