Flash fiction. From a visit to Tintagel Castle above Merlin's Cave on the Cornish coast.
There's no castle here – only gray piles of stacked stone devoured by the soft jaws of the earth; overwhelmed and overgrown by wind swept waves of green grass and ocean fog. And yet, I can imagine its walls rising above the bounding waves. Here was the chapel: a long room ending in a stone altar. Was this a kitchen? Small openings in the foot thick wall would have allowed the sea air to circulate. What fires must have had to burn all day here? And at what toil was fuel carried, on bent backs, up these steep stairways? Oh! I can see the ghosts of people past: A woman gathers her long skirts to navigate the wet stone steps. Ahead of her, a boy leaps from one level of stairs to another. Across the headland, I can hear the faint sound of sheep. And from somewhere on the salty wind, drifts the ring of hammer on anvil. That hard life has faded now into fantasy and fairytale. The juxtaposition of realities collide in my mind's eye and I am dizzy, suddenly, looking down from the castle cliffs.
How often has someone counted the high tides of this place?
