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Iwasn’t expecting the grounds of Alnwick Castle to be so crowded and hostile to taking photographs. A Monday, and not yet the school holidays, I had assumed unhindered views for my visit. Listening to the lilt of the Scots dialect, I remembered, belatedly, that the Scottish schools broke up earlier than their English counterparts. It looked like a coach load of holiday clubs had deposited their energetic cargo in the heart of the castle.
Thwarted, I went for an early lunch in the café and squashed myself in a cramped corner, next to a harassed mother and her brood. I devoured a sandwich and scalded my mouth on hot coffee. Ignoring the hubbub, I read a few passages from Braithwaite’s guide on the arrival of the Normans.
The idea of a castle, a defence structure inhabited by a lord or knight, was an invention of the Normans. Prior to their invasion, such private fortifications had been banned. It was the duty of the king to defend his nation. Building your own castle was forbidden by Alfred the Great. In the land of the Gaul, the invasion of the Viking Norseman led to the creation of a new Duchy – Normandy. The French king’s power disintegrated when he failed to repel the Norsemen. Other men filled the power vacuum, built their strong fortifications and the king, unable to stop them, had been left with a small country surrounded by fiefdoms. The era of the domineering feudal lord had arrived.
For Alnwick, that feudal power lay with the formidable Percy family.
Offering up my table to another boisterous family, I decided to visit the Constable Tower where there was an exhibition on Henry Percy, better known as Harry Hotspur, a warrior knight since childhood. Wandering around the exhibits, I deciphered letters written by him, the pictures of the castle as it appeared in his lifetime, and read of his gruesome death in battle. There were plenty of quotes from Shakespeare. I didn’t recognise them; my English syllabus had chosenMacbeth.
What was it about men and war? Had the castles those great medieval knights built fostered a love of destruction and chaos, or were they constructed to avoid conflict by threatening their opponents with long sieges and unnecessary hardships? It was probably a mixture of both. As usual, I tried to look past the killing aspect of the architecture to the indestructible elements and sheer scale of them.
The Percy family lineage dated back to the same Viking invaders who conquered Normandy and settled there. Could such an ancient lineage be proved beyond doubt? The Percy women had between them produced a long line of nobles. My parents knew little of their own ancestors. Mum in particular was cagey and uncomfortable talking about it. The excuse given was reliability. Granny Izzy, my late maternal grandmother, had a form of dementia, and had a tendency to make things up. She liked to tell entertaining stories that kept the younger members of the family spellbound. As for my dad, he bounced any questions about his family back to me by saying, ‘What’s the point?’ A staple answer for anything he didn’t know; he would rather deflect the question than admit ignorance.
I stepped outside and rummaged in the pocket of my rucksack. Opening my notebook, I reminded myself of the structures to be photographed. Most of Medici’s requirements were odd features of the octagonal towers of the barbican, which included stone figures standing guard on the parapets. The life-like guardians were a pretence to fool attackers into thinking there was a significant garrison. I picked a spot away from the crowded areas and fiddled with the tilt until I had the angle right, then I zoomed in on the caricatures. They looked miserable and weather-worn, although today, the sunshine was roasting them. I peeled off a layer of clothing.
Something about Alnwick failed to capture my imagination – I hadn’t experienced a single episode, not a hint of sensory overload nor even a tingle. My nostrils flared unproductively, picking up only neutral smells. As for the atmosphere, there was nothing to stimulate me. Was that due my inability to wholly relax or the history of the place? It felt a pity that the castle, given its fantastic history, wasn’t in ruins. A selfish thought, cold-hearted, perhaps.
Job done, I lugged my equipment with a weariness of spirit, and headed towards the gatehouse and exit. It was time to find my resting place for the night.
?
‘Robyn?’ The door opened a crack to reveal a shockingly pale face.
My hand recoiled from the doorbell. ‘Yes. Mrs Farley?’
‘Ms Farley.’ The wary expression deepened just short of a frown. The welcoming technique was the opposite end of the spectrum to Beverly and Bert. I felt like an uninvited intruder and not a paying guest.
She yanked on the door handle. ‘Call me Meg.’
The proprietor of Petals Bed and Breakfast was considerably younger than I’d anticipated. Probably because an antique couple managed the last establishment, I had assumed retired folk were the norm. I tilted my head back, then a bit more. Meg was a bean pole with cellophane leggings stuck to her skinny legs and a limp t-shirt with visible ping-pong ball breasts underneath the thin fabric. She flicked a strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. Obviously dyed – her eyes were blue.
‘Breakfast at seven-thirty,’ she said. Her spider legs bounded up the stairs, while I heaved the suitcase up each step. ‘I have to work tomorrow.’ Her booming voice echoed down the stairwell.
I staggered and nearly toppled backwards.
The room featured an iron frame bed and a pinewood chest of drawers. From that minimalist starting point, upon closer inspection, the details went downhill. Grey-cream walls, flaking paint around the windowsill and crooked Venetian blinds. The room smelt of pine scented furniture polish applied in a frenzy. This was my introduction to the cheap end of the B&B market. My skin immediately started to itch, as if unwashed and grubby.
Meg unsuccessfully attempted to realign a broken blind. ‘Bathroom’s opposite. Please remember to lock the door.’
I dropped the heavy holdall on the floor and gently lowered the camera bag on to the bed.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Sorry, no telly. You’re welcome to watch with me, downstairs.’
Meg wrung her hands together, as if begging me to decline, which I did politely. I waited expectantly for mention of dinner.
She held out a solitary key on a piece of string. ‘Front door. I put the chain across at ten. Best be back by then.’
I was under the strong impression she wanted me out of the house.
‘Sure. Ten.’ I noted the hand holding the key, especially the pale band of skin on the ring finger. Recently divorced? Desperate for cash? Meg was noticeably uncomfortable in her role as landlady.
She backed out of the room, smiling awkwardly, moving with adolescent gawkiness. She fumbled with the doorhandle. ‘Anything. Just ask.’ She pulled the door shut behind her.
I kicked off my shoes and lay on the bed, which had a hard mattress and a lumpy feather pillow, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. The brief respite ended. I had things to do. Hunting around, pulling furniture away from the walls, I discovered the room had one plug socket. I sorted through the day’s pictures, deleted the failures off the nearly full memory stick and noted the good ones. It all took time.
Done with the camera, I fished out the Nokia mobile from my handbag and sent a text to Mum. I couldn’t face ringing her and admitting I was lonely. What I texted was a bit like a night watchman’s report at the end of a shift:
