So – picture this. You wake up knowing that you’re going on some day out. That is usual in our house, going out randomly, but this time you have no idea where you’re going. Your step brother is taken out to school (imagine, you are me, and the step brother is William) and your mother and sister are rushing about with bags and suitcases. Your sister has no idea where she is going either, but she has been told to help. As soon as your step dad has come home from the school drop-off, you all leap into the car and start fumbling with the suitcases and bags and the briefcases added, attempting to load them into the boot. The keys are in the ignition and they are beginning to boost enegy into the dead engine of the car. Suddenly there’s a ‘vrrrrrrm’ noise, and the whole car begins to bump out of the drive. Your mother is driving slowly down the gravel. You know that your journey to somewhere has begun. But that somewhere is not self-evident.
The car rumbles down the drive, down the street, down the roads, and begins to roll onto the motorway. It’s a quick start but you know you’re ages away yet. Signs and lights are flashing everywhere. You know it’s early morning but the sun has risen for hours. It’s mid-September, and the traffic is rare. The car tumbles down the smooth, tarmac roads, and soon cars are beeping and the whole village world has changed. You clutch onto your bear and stare out of the moving window. You know it will get better than feeling car-sick on the motorway. You’re enthusiastic.
Every minute the air is getting thicker with car pollution. The time has ticked f0r almost half an hour. You roll past the services, looking eagerly at the KFC – and then realising it’s KFC, and hiding your head under the blanket in disgust of it all. Suddenly you notice it has been hour after hour since you left the long, forgetful drive. You pull off the motorway and enter the outlet shopping centre. You call it the Bicester Shopping Village, and describe how much you would love to live there. It’s like being in an even more miniture Gulliver’s Land, roaming around the cobblestone streets with Cath Kidson and Clarks on either side. You enter what seems like millions of shops, pass wealthy picnic places laid with pink and lilac cushions. You begin to feel hungry. At the sight of the opposite Pret, and the people walking out with the mayonnaise humous dripping from their wraps, and clutching fallen avacado and herbs, your mouth waters. “Come on then,” says your mother out of the commotion. You turn your head round and stare at the beautiful wraps as you stride along. “Let’s get some lunch out from the car.” Your whole attitude changes, as you glide towards the car park. Your hands are filled with soft white rolls, filled with olive oil butter and inch-thick gouda cheese. Finally you have eaten. Now you’re ready for the next journey.
The car rolls along the motorway again. After what seems like hours, but what is only one and a quarter, you turn off the busy road again and see a castle looming in sight. You see a sign saying ‘Chepstow Castle’, and beneath it something in Welsh. You’re in Wales! You look back over the bridge you crossed, entirely unaware. ‘Chehoie Cgywgde’ it pretty much says. You realise and jump up and down in the car, climb out and run up the huge slope. You see the portcullis and its spiky tops. You get out of the car and begin to roam the castle, where you find many cool passageways and dark cellars.
The cold stone walls are fiesty against your skin as you stroll along the corridor with your mother and sister. In what seemed like only ten minutes, a receptionist is running along, saying, “Closing in ten minutes! Carpark and castle closing in ten minutes!”. You run to the car and get driving just as the security guard pulls the lever on the gate. He lets you through, and you drive swiftly away, hearing the gates clang behind you.
Now you’re in for the next castle, your mother says. “It’s smaller,” she says, “but quite a bit better. It was also built by Edward I, like in Chepstow.” You wait in the back of the car as it rumbles along the countries.
Suddenly you’re there. There’s a long stone wall with little rectangles made of stone on it. Inside there’s a huge castle – though not as big as Cheptow Castle. Its looming gatehouse and black portcullis is none but terrifying. “I need to tell you a secret,” says your mother, as you sit in the carpark. “This castle was used by King John…” she goes into a long lecture about his reign… “and we’re staying in it! Welcome to the Haunted Castle!” You bounce around the car, gasping for joy. You will stay in a castle! St. Briavel’s Castle. It’s a youth hostel! You can’t believe your ears.
You enter the gatehouse with high hopes, and are guided to ‘Isobel’s Room’ – it was yours now! The people ahead of you sleep in the prison. As you enter the room, hoping there shan’t be noise from other people, you see a marvellously tremendously brilliantly huge room! It has two bunk beds, one of which has a double bed under where the single should be, long, bright curtains, and a wonderful windowseat. You feel like Jane Eyre as you sit down on the slippy wooden planks. This is where you are going to stay. You feel overjoyed! It’s quiet, silent, and most of all lovely. What luck! (Isobel was King John’s second wife. She lived in the room we did)!
