The scariest thing about lockdown is the loss of the feeling that something fun is always happening somewhere else
The Duke of Edinburgh’s return to Windsor last week made me think how much I’d love to visit a castle. Prince Philip’s probably a bit less enthusiastic about it, for the combined reasons of his infirmity and his enormous familiarity with Windsor Castle. No change is as bad as no rest, as we’re all finding.
I’m telling myself that lots of trips to castles will be on the cards for me as soon as things open up a bit. I love castles, particularly ruined castles, as the non-ruined ones have usually been ruined – often by the Victorians’ attempts to make them look more authentically like the vision of medieval life that Walt Disney hadn’t yet been bothered to be born and imagine; but sometimes by the attempts of aristocrats in the 1950s to continue living in them with reasonable comfort despite the onslaught of new welfare state-induced taxation levels, and in advance of the approaching constraints of listed building status. So plenty of little electric fires and asbestos amid the arrow slits. I remember a room at Sudeley Castle that looked like someone had taken a fitted kitchen from Howards’ Way and fired it at a baronial location from an Errol Flynn movie.
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