But a castle, or any grand building, does something to me.
And I'm not sure why.
For as long as I can remember I've been completely enchanted by castles, palaces, manors, halls...
with so many rooms and the possibility of getting lost in the labyrinth of hallways and staircases.
The dim light, the dank musty smell.
The history, the multitude of past dwellers who surely must have left some part of their spirit behind somewhere inside the grand walls.
I've always been an indoor person so I suppose I love the idea of being able to have such a huge space to stay inside in.
I've just started reading Kate Morton's The Distant Hours and her description of Milderhurst Castle has done it again. I feel a sense of familiar. I feel like I am there, was there, belong there.
Is it a case of a past life peeking through into my present, or a serious case of PS (Princess Syndrome)?
It's most likely to be the later.
Grandiose dreams, wishful thinking.
But when I touched the gates of Sandringham, walked the halls of Kensington, strolled around Napoleon's Apartments in the Louvre...I felt like I was a part of it or it was a part of me.
I love the feeling of being engulfed by the enormity of the building.
Of finding a room, or rooms, or spaces of my own.
Hidden from everyone else.
To sit, to read, to play.
To live, to be.