This is a fine building — or, rather, a complex of buildings. Taken, with a long zoom, from the slopes of Allermuir Hill, the north-eastern terminus of the Pentland Hills. Behind, across the Firth of Forth, the shore of Fife. It’s somewhere other than home, anyway.
Out in the harsh desert wastes of the Karakatarmakadam Mountains, the stark grey stonework of the Fortress of Rodblok stands astride the gravel flats, beside the dried-up river valley. Abandoned for centuries, the winter winds are now all that move through its lonely halls. No longer do pilgrims visit to pay homage to the great Red Icon embedded in its highest reaches.
Or, possibly, it’s a plastic object of some sort lying around in that roadbuilders’ yard on the way to Mytholmroyd. See it how you like.
Clitheroe Castle is at least 910 years old but despite having been in a state of general ruin since the English Civil War, that is the 1640s, it is just about still standing on a spot with a really good view (as castles should have). On our first day of a week off work for the both of us, Clare enjoys said view — ignoring the rain coming in behind.
The walls of the castle at Richmond, North Yorkshire, have been there for some 900 years now: they’re not as intact as once they were, but still form an impressive backdrop to the town — and here, its football club. I lived near here for a few years in the mid-1990s, it always seemed like the ‘big city’ in a way but it’s a tiny town in actuality, a sign of how far out in the sticks I was at this time. I don’t miss living there and haven’t been back much at all, but it was pleasant to return for a day trip today.
I’m sure this is the standard tourist shot but never mind, this was an impressive place. Built around 1590 and destroyed at least twice since, first in 1615 and then again in 1868, this is more like a museum that was built to resemble the original castle keep (the disabled access elevator at the front was probably not part of the architect’s original design), but it was still well worth a visit.
Arundel Castle in Sussex dates from the 12th century, and is a great study in just how much power and privilege remains on this smallish island off the coast of Europe. The castle walls are monstrously immense. This place is like Gormenghast, a vast fortress rising above a small town above, but otherwise relatively isolated, ruling over a huge swathe of countryside. Most countries got rid of their aristocracies a hundred or so years ago, of course, but we in England haven’t got round to it yet, so this place is still lived in — the home of the 18th Duke of Norfolk.
This shot is taken not twenty yards from my house, but I think it sustains a suitably Eastern European feeling. Particularly with the bats — or whatever — circling ominously above.
Conwy is a few miles from Llandudno. First-ever visit there today, and what a beautiful and interesting place — there were many potential candidates for today’s photo. But in the end, had to go with the castle. This is premium castle. Built, along with its accompanying town walls, in only four years, in the 13th century by Edward I. Public engineering projects in this epoch take longer (look at Manchester city centre for instance). Then again this was a fortress of occupation: no Welsh were allowed to live within the Conwy walls.
Middleham Castle was started in the last days of the 12th century. In 1460 or thereabouts it passed into the hands of Richard III, who may well have trod these stone passages, etc. etc., or perhaps not seeing as this shot might be taken up a chimney and rotated? The thing I like about this one is that you can’t be sure. An impressive ruin, anyway.
First weekday of Joe’s school summer holiday and first weekday of my break too. Took him to York. This is Clifford’s Tower, which in 1190 was the scene of a notorious suicide/massacre by hundreds of persecuted Jews, and has been more-or-less in ruins since someone accidentally set fire to it in 1684. Today, venue for a school party of Americans to be conducted by their teacher (below) in a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. Tuneless — as ‘Happy Birthday’ always is when sung, fewer tunes are massacred more often.
Being 42 