Crookston Castle
History Lesson
Gordon BrownI haven’t seen my sanctuary for thirty years. The castle – dark, solid, timeless – is embedded into the small rise above me. A shadow of its former self, but still a place of strength. Of quiet power.
Its dank reek floats to me on an ice-cold wind born in the Arctic and I can see myself inside, sitting on cold rock, thighs at my chest, arms wrapped around my legs – rocking. My head buried in my knees. Face wet with tears. Twelve years old. Scared.
The memories are strong. Their roots, like the castle’s foundations, deep.
Not that this was a bad place for me. It was just a place I went when bad things happened. A cold, shaded room in its bowels providing a place of safety. Somewhere beyond the reach of others. A place to reflect on what I was
